The Art of Deception
by katehathaway
Summary: Sequel to The Art of Betrayal. Full summary inside to avoid spoilers. M for violence, language. Darkish Dramione. 1920s Muggle AU.
1. Watch Her Conquer

_**The Art of Deception **_

_Rating: _M

_Summary: _Hermione Granger – her true identity now revealed – must convince the Death Eaters that she is, and always will be, loyal to them. Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy devises a strategy to expand his empire by invading the British government. However, neither of them is prepared for what will threaten their desires… or _who_ will threaten them, rather. M for violence, language. Darkish Dramione. 1920s Muggle AU.

_Disclaimer: _I do not own these characters, nor do I claim profit from this work. All credit is due to J.K. Rowling.

**A/N – **This story is the sequel of _The Art of Betrayal._ It is (loosely) influenced by _Peaky Blinders_ as well as _Great Gatsby_ but is not intended to be directly based on either and no previous knowledge or experience on either of them is necessary.

I will not be including any trigger warnings so, please continue to read at your own risk. However, feel free to message me privately (or review) with any specific questions or concerns pertaining to the dark themes if you have any. Language, violence, character death, near and/or implied sexual assault are all present in this fic.

I am thrilled to be starting another story with you, and hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 1: Watch Her Conquer**

* * *

_7 May 1929_

_WEDDING OF THE DECADE: _

_THE LOVE STORY OF MISS GRANGER AND LORD MALFOY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_Tomorrow morning, Lord Draco Malfoy DCM OBE VC MP will no longer be known as a beloved bachelor. Instead, he will be a devoted husband to the exquisite Miss Hermione Granger, whom he has been dating for just over four years. The few notable guests – including King George V himself! – lucky enough to be invited to their wedding ceremony in Westminster will witness the union of the destined couple. Meanwhile, the rest of Great Britain will have to make do with hearing the BBC broadcast of the ceremony from their sitting room radios._

_It is my absolute delight to be granted permission from the effervescent couple themselves to cover their love story in the _Daily Prophet_. I believe we all remember the exact moment we fell in love with Miss Granger – when she stepped out on Lord Malfoy's arm, draped in a custom Greengrass gown, with a rock the size of New Zealand on her ring finger! However, what I'm sure we're all dying to know, is the precise moment Lord Malfoy fell in love with Miss Granger – and she with him. _

_The story of how Miss Hermione Granger, challenged by fate and economic circumstance, came to become the future wife of Britain's most eligible bachelor is awe-inspiring. It reveals how one woman, given the most prestigious opportunity by the utterly benevolent Malfoys, rose to encompass a timeless, poignant position as the future Lady Malfoy. Like most fairytales, the romance between Lord Malfoy and Miss Granger began with a dream._

What a load of fucking rubbish.

First of all, I have _never_ heard Rita refer to me as 'exquisite'. Not once, and _definitely_ not when the public so-called fell in love with me. Rita is the first person to condemn any action I make, and she made it known in her tabloid-style articles in the _Daily Prophet_ that I am 'manipulating Lord Malfoy into believing that they love each other for the sole purpose of acquiring his wealth and status'. Yes, that was pulled from an old piece she wrote.

Verbatim.

Let's not even get into how she casually mentions how poor and undeserving I am of Draco, because I think if I have to go down that rabbit hole one more bloody time, I won't come out. At least, not with my sanity intact.

King George, Westminster, the BBC… it all makes me a bit nauseous if I'm being honest. It's not at all what I wanted (when I realized that marrying Draco was actually a very real possibility – and one that we both wanted). Their involvement in the wedding is partly why it drives me insane when people, including Rita, who don't actually know Draco and I, swore by my gold digger intentions not long ago. Now, of course, since I presume that they realized they aren't getting rid of me any time soon, their opinions are more civil.

Hence, the fucking use of 'timeless', 'poignant' and, my personal favorite, 'awe-inspiring'.

Sometimes, I do pity Rita because as far as she knows – and the rest of Great Britain – I simply sat behind a desk or followed Draco around like a lost puppy with a pen and notebook glued to my greedy hands. To them, only the past four and a half years of my relationship were significant; they don't know about the five before those.

For some of us, however, those five will never be forgotten.

* * *

_31 July 1925_

Hermione grimaced at the harsh sunlight as she stepped carefully across the stone pathway leading from the upper lawn down into Narcissa's garden. The gardenias and primroses planted last spring blossomed in this particularly wet and stifling summer. The white summer dress she wore clung to her body, nearly suffocating her beneath its expensive silk. Hermione ascended the tiny steps of the gazebo; she inhaled and exhaled two deep breaths before plastering a false smile across her rosy lips and striking up conversation.

"He hates me," she said to Theo. Her words were accusatory and icy, though anyone out of earshot would never know that. Hermione wore an expression so beautiful and content, she was sure even Narcissa standing on the other side of the gazebo would not sense how upset she truly was. "He hates me," she repeated.

Theo, lucky enough to have his back turned to most of the guests milling about, rolled his eyes at her. He towered over her, and the faint scent of smoked wood and pine needles seeped from his tailored beige suit.

"He doesn't hate you," replied Theo with a subtle shake of his head. He tipped his glass back, emptying its contents in a single gulp. "He's hurting."

"Did it ever occur to him that I'm hurting, too?" She replied, arching her eyebrow. "It's not as if the past few months have been easy for either of us. One minute he accepted my past, then the next he threw it back in my face. I'm getting whiplash. The least he could do is _talk_ to me," she mumbled.

Theo tilted his head, questioning her. "We both know that talking is one of his least favorite past times." He sighed. "It's not just your past, and I don't mean to belittle any of your pain by any means, but it's also this new role he wants to take on. The lies and the false relationship are difficult for him; they open up old wounds."

"_Old_ wounds," scoffed Hermione. "I'm beginning to wonder if he ever closed those wounds,"

Theo's face contorted into a condescending expression. "Five years is a long time, Granger. The trust built during that time was broken in the blink of an eye, and it won't easily be restored. If at all," remarked Theo. Hermione winced, unable to prevent the reflex from happening before she could school her expression. Theo, ever the attentive friend, noticed this and looped his arm in hers. "Come," he said. "I need another drink, and you can certainly use one. You haven't had any today yet, have you?"

"No," Hermione lied. She'd had three shots of vodka for breakfast, but she didn't feel like explaining why to Theo at the moment – or ever. It was best if he didn't realize how difficult this particular day was for her, and it would be better yet if she didn't tell him because of his big mouth.

"Wonderful," chirped Theo as he led her toward the bar. It had been specifically constructed for that day's festivities. "Two whiskeys, please. Neat." He paused, then added, "On second thought, make them both a double, will you?"

The barman nodded.

Theo ran a hand through his dark hair and produced a set of black mirrored sunglasses Hermione hadn't noticed were there; to be fair, he was much taller than her even with her heels on.

"I'll have mine on the rocks, actually," Hermione told the barman quickly. "Thank you,"

"No, no," Theo interrupted, throwing out his palm to stop the barman from adding ice to one of the crystal glasses. "Absolutely not. Not in this family. It's neat or nothing, Granger,"

Hermione sighed. "Theo," she groaned, crossing her arms over her chest.

He rolled his eyes again, then addressed the barman. "Add a drop of water to both of them and _one_ ice cube to hers. Excellent, thank you," he said when the barman handed him the two drinks. Theo handed the one with a single cube of ice to Hermione and shook his head disapprovingly at her. "Happy now?"

"Very," she replied drily.

Hermione sipped idly at her whiskey. She glanced around at the guests, slowly relaxing in Theo's presence. His silence, and the added distraction of people watching, curbed her turbulent thoughts.

Most of the women, ordinarily dawned in designer ballroom gowns for this type of event, elected for Wimbledon-esque dresses instead. The men, confined to three-piece suits, opted for breathable fabrics. Still, it was obvious that there was a general discomfort from the Londoners, which could be seen by nearly everyone fanning themselves with the custom-made _sensus_. It was the Treasurer of the Board's bloody brilliant idea to host the Twenty-fifth Annual Charity Fundraiser for Children in Need _outside_ on a sweltering summers day.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

"Blaise," smirked Theo as the elegant ebony man strode toward them. "What an _ingenious _idea it was for you to believe this lovely event should be hosted in the Manor." He feigned a gasp. "Oh, my apologies. Not _in_ the Manor, _outside_ the Manor."

"It would have been warm no matter where we held it, Theodore," Blaise chided, sparking a cigarette. He puffed out a cloud of smoke, then added, "In any case, it's not _my_ fault a massive heat wave struck last night. I can't control the weather."

"Shame," tutted Theo with a petty pout. "You'd be twice more useful to us if you could."

"Fuck off."

Hermione chuckled at Blaise's poor attempt to hide his irritation with Theo. Their banter was one of her favorite things, and if she didn't know any better, she would presume they were putting themselves on a bit more for her benefit. Instead of commenting on her theory, however, Hermione simply raised her glass between the two men.

"Cheers, gentlemen," she said.

"Blaise isn't a gentleman." Theo muttered with a roguish grin he could have only learned from Harry.

"Fuck off," he snapped in response, subtly punching Theo in the stomach and causing some of his precious whiskey to spill on the manicured grass. He shook his head, taking another drag. "Cheers to what?" Blaise questioned.

Hermione shrugged, "To melting in this horrendous heat wave," – Blaise grimaced, but Hermione leaned into him and offered a small smile – "but looking good despite the fact."

"The fuck kind of soppy shit speech was that, Granger?" Theo remarked at the same time Blaise finished off his drink and said, "Fuck it, I'll drink to that."

The three of them talked about simple things such as how stressed Narcissa must be with all of these people wandering about her darling gardens, when Astoria might be returning from her trip to Scotland, and how many more times Gilderoy Lockhart would be appointed Most Charming Smile before someone dethroned him. Then, much to her dismay, the conversation shifted to a subject she wished she never brought up to Theo in the first place.

"So, Hermione," Blaise began in a cautious tone. "How have you and Draco been lately?"

She groaned inwardly. It was a fair enough question for Blaise to ask her. He had been away to Birmingham for the past six months on business, and, although there hasn't been _any_ improvement between her and Draco, it was not as if Blaise would know. Then again, he could have talked to literally anyone in the household about it.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, "He hates me." She said curtly. "Why do you ask?"

Blaise balanced the half-lit cigarette between his lips and nodded over her shoulder, whispering in her ear, "Here he comes," before backing away to a respectable distance.

The familiar scent of Draco's aftershave, followed by the low timber of his voice, dizzied Hermione. She swayed slightly, instinctively leaning closer to Theo for support, then shifted to greet Draco. She opened her mouth to say hello – or plead for him to talk to her like a _normal fucking person_ and not treat her like a prisoner of war – but before she could even get out one syllable, he spoke first.

Draco looked directly over her, nodding to both Theo and Blaise, then scoffed, "Fuck it's hot as hell out here." When Blaise frowned, Draco patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, mate, I'm not blaming you." He dug through his pale grey suit for a cigarette; the suit perfectly matched his eyes' idyllic shade of silver, and it made Hermione's heart plummet.

After exhaling a puff of smoke, Draco wrapped his arm around Hermione's waist and pulled her to his side without notice. Hermione stilled. Then, his lips were on her ear, murmuring, "Don't worry, I won't be staying."

As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared, and Hermione was left shivering under the late July sun and wondering what the bloody hell just happened. She blinked. In the corner of her eye, she caught Draco saunter off to greet Mr. Bagman and Mr. Carrow with a wicked grin on his face. The three of them put their arms around one another and walked off, laughing, toward a few unaccompanied women.

"Ignore him," whispered Theo. She tore her gaze from the dazzling ginger woman Draco walked up to and fixed it on her friend beside her. "He's doing this to wind you up."

"Why?" Hermione hissed under her breath. She reached for a _sensu_ on the nearest cocktail table and began fanning herself with it. Now, with the added coverage of the fan to prevent others from seeing her distress, she went on. "_He_ started this whole fucked up situation and put me in this bloody position. He supposed to be in love with me, and yet, there he goes, running to the nearest desirable woman he can find." Hermione pouted. "I'm genuinely surprised he didn't invite Fleur."

Blaise coughed to clear his throat, then muttered. "He did invite her, but she couldn't make it." He paused, regarding Hermione warily. "Her response card mentioned she sends her love to both of you."

"Oh, fuck that," she swore.

Fleur, by any and all means, was not the one to blame. Hermione was certainly not about to start shaming other women for men's wrongdoings either. If there was one thing that she learned from being close friends with Astoria Greengrass, it was _that_. Still, it stung to think that Draco could have very well invited Fleur to flaunt their interactions in Hermione's face. He knew how much their shoot bothered her still to this day.

"Who is he talking to anyway?" Hermione asked, clearly speaking to Blaise.

He glanced at Theo briefly before responding. "Ginny Weasley," he said. At Hermione's shocked expression, he went on. "Yes, _that_ Weasley. She's the youngest, and only woman, among the siblings."

"What the bloody hell is she doing here?" Hermione asked, incapable of restraining her tongue.

"Honestly," admitted Blaise, raising his glass to his lips. "I'm not entirely sure why's she's here. She has ten times more class than her idiot brothers, to start, but I'm certain Narcissa isn't thrilled at _all_ about hosting a Weasley. No matter the occasion."

Theo and Hermione exchanged grimaces, apparently, in agreeance with Narcissa.

"She's a member of the New Order," remarked Blaise with an exasperated sigh. "_The_ member, if I recall correctly."

"Correct," supplied Theo, pursing his lips. "Which, I believe, makes her presence fucking Potter's doing. My apologies for his horrendous manners," added Theo in her ear as an afterthought. He shook his head, and Hermione followed his line of sight to where the disheveled raven-haired man stood. When the two men's eyes met, Potter shook hands with the people he was previously conversing with and began walking over to their trio.

"Hey," Harry said, tilting his head to the side. "Can I steal Hermione for a chat?"

"What?" Theo retorted, narrowing his pale blue eyes at Harry. "You didn't come over here to talk to me? The _fuck_,"

Hermione stood awkwardly between the couple; she wasn't sure if Theo's remarks were a side effect of an argument the two had recently, or if he was simply egging Harry on for the sake of it. One could never tell with Theodore Nott Jr. Evidently Harry didn't seem to mind one bit. His half-smile grew into a full one, and a flash of mischief sparked behind his emerald eyes.

"I'll steal you later, Nott, for more than just a chat," he winked.

"Gross," muttered Hermione at the same time Theo smirked and Blaise said, "Fucking hell, I need another drink." As the two men wandered off to where Pansy and Daphne stood in the shade of the gazebo, Harry took Hermione's arm and led her back towards the Manor.

"I didn't realize we'd be leaving the party," she commented, though she was especially glad they were leaving the dreadful gala and its glamorous guests behind. Harry slid her a sidelong glance, and Hermione couldn't help but feel reassured in his presence. Where there had once been misunderstanding and manipulation, now existed compassion and camaraderie. "Thank you," added Hermione as they sat on one of the benches at the top of the lawn, "and Happy Birthday, Harry."

"You remembered," he teased.

"Of course, I remembered. I'm fairly skilled at keeping track of dates and names."

Harry coughed, "I suppose you have to be, provided your previous work experience in covert operations." Hermione blanched, and he went on. "Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. It's commendable, actually, how you were able to dissociate yourself from your work."

"Was I though?" She questioned. Her gaze slid from his intruding emerald eyes to the glint of silver preparing to make his annual speech. This year, she hadn't helped write it, and that fact twisted like a knife in her windpipe. "Anyway," she said, blinking back tears. "How _is_ work?"

"Well, Fudge is about as hard to please as you warned me he would be," Harry told her. "I think he likes me, though, because I barely spend longer than a tea break at my desk."

"He _would_ like you," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes. "You really are the Chosen One, aren't you?" She mocked.

"Hey," he spluttered, "His favor in me has absolutely nothing to do with that god forsaken nickname, and absolutely everything to do with the fact that Fudge is as massive a misogynist as you claimed him to be." He shook his head and laughed when he caught the smirk stretched across Hermione's face. "Bloody hell," he swore. "I swear you're the only person whose mockery genuinely upset me."

"Sorry," she replied half-heartedly between chuckles.

When their laughter died down, Harry propped one leg over the other, balancing his ankle over his opposite knee. He sighed, then said, "I still can't believe Fudge put you up to working for Shacklebolt and the Aurors. He doesn't seem like the most intelligent man to me," Harry remarked. "Much less one who could arrange an entire secret organization under Churchill's nose."

Hermione sighed.

"No, he doesn't." She glanced askance at him. "There's been no chatter among the officers about what happened over Christmas?"

Harry shook his head.

She didn't need any further explanation; Draco had done a remarkable job at falsifying a story to make it appear as though the Aurors were in lieu with the IRA, and Hermione knew how the London police functioned. According to what little information the press released, an explosion in a small terraced home destroyed what must have been a black market for arms dealers, killing several unidentified men while simultaneously recovering the stolen RSAF weaponry.

What Britain would never know is that Draco wrote to Slughorn and informed him of suspected IRA involvement in a particular black-market arms community. Slughorn then, predictably, pieced together the missing weapons had been taken by the IRA men fleeing London. Under direct order from Churchill himself most likely, Slughorn gave a brief public report that _all_ weapons were accounted for. As for the unidentified men, the Aurors, it was no surprise to Hermione that Fudge nor Churchill (it was still unclear how high up the chain the creation or knowledge of the Ministry went) claimed to know them.

"Well," Hermione said. "I suppose I should be glad you're getting close with the higher-ups this quickly. Perhaps, sooner rather than later, we can get to the bottom of who created the Ministry and why." He nodded, and she went on. "Shacklebolt was forthcoming enough to you and me that his creation of the Order was meant for the destruction of the Death Eaters, but that doesn't necessarily mean the entire Ministry backed this plot."

Harry agreed, "Right." He met her eyes, and asked, "Does it bother you – not being part of the undercover investigation?"

Hermione thought about it.

"Yes and no," she replied truthfully. "I miss having meaningful work, and something to do. I hate having to sit around all day and do stupid crafts meant to demean my intelligence. If I have to learn another useless trade like crocheting, then I'm going to scream."

"Hm," grunted Harry. "There's always a leadership role in the New Order waiting for you, if you want it."

"Absolutely not," scoffed Hermione. "There's no way I could ever get involved with them, no matter how different they are now, given my allegiance to the Death Eaters." Not to mention, Hermione thought, _she_ was directly responsible for the death of a notable Order member. Luckily, Harry didn't know about that. "Besides," she elbowed him playfully. "Everyone knows _you_ will always be the real leader of the New Order."

Harry chuckled, "Try telling that to the woman in charge."

"Wait," she blinked. "I thought your little sidekick was the new leader. Theo _definitely_ complained about a weasel making snappy demands the other day so, I presumed it was him."

"Oh," Harry smirked. "Ron is technically the leader, yes, but we all know it's his younger sister, Ginny, who has control of the New Order." He shook his head, and Hermione's blood boiled at the name. That was the second time that afternoon that she'd heard it, and both times she has been thoroughly displeased by its association with topic of conversation. "She's fire incarnate, that one," added Harry.

* * *

Hermione lay awake that night, unable to fall asleep.

Eventually, tormented by spiraling thoughts, she swung the duvet aside and slipped on a silk robe. She opened the top drawer of her nightstand and removed one of the fuller bottles of vodka, having every intention to make a nice dip in its contents. Her bare feet padded against the wood floor as she crossed the corridor and stepped soundlessly into the room across from hers.

The emptiness of the room stood out to Hermione. The furniture, flooring, and walls used to all be adorned with black wood, which is why she had nicknamed it the Room Noir. There used to be bookshelves, armchairs, and a proper desk on the far wall. Now, instead of elegant furniture, there was no furniture; the room was vacant and eerie. Despite the cream-colored walls, and the naturally finished oak floor, the room appeared more sinister to Hermione than it did with its black decor.

Sometimes, when Hermione was feeling lonely or depressed, she would come into the room and sit in the center of it. She would stare at the floor, walls, ceiling, and try not to think of the potential this room held. How it haunted her, and how no matter how much she wanted to move away from it, she couldn't bring herself to do so.

Hermione was inhaling and exhaling slowly, trying to keep her flood of tears from breaking the dam. She raised the bottle to her lips, and the creak of the heavy door alerted her to someone's presence.

"I figured I would find you here," a voice said.

Her head turned slowly, and her eyes were met by dark and stormy ones. "Draco," she whispered, more to herself than to him. He moved quietly through the doorway and stopped beside her. "What are you doing here?" She asked him; her voice barely audible.

"Same as you, I imagine," he replied softly. Draco motioned with a wave of his hand to the space on the empty floor next to her, "May I sit?"

She nodded, "It's your house. You can do whatever you please." Hermione had not meant to be harsh, but her tone was quite rude, and there was no taking it back now. The words froze Draco as he shifted into a comfortable sitting position. His eyes flickered across her face, and Hermione immediately felt a surge of guilt wash over her. "Sorry," she murmured, averting her gaze from his piercing grey eyes.

Hermione internally reprimanded herself for apologizing to him when _he_ was the one being unspeakably aggressive to her nowadays, but, then again, that was one of the differences between them. She coped by requiring affection and someone to talk to, while Draco coped by needing space and someone to blame.

That someone, of course, would be her.

"How are you?" He asked, clenching his jaw.

Hermione grimaced, "Don't act like you care. Don't do that," she reprimanded, shaking her head and nervously toying with the strap tying her robe together. "I don't think I can take you letting me in just to shove me away again."

"What? Am I not allowed to ask how you are anymore?" His lips twisted downward sinisterly. "We've been over this a million times, and I don't know what else to say to you. It's for the best," Draco's tone had taken a sharp turn for the worst. Hermione didn't appreciate it one bit and, because she'd been drinking, decided to lash out.

"Are you fucking joking?" She snapped.

"Am I _wrong_?"

She fumed. "You always think you're on the bloody right side of everything, Draco, well you're not. Just because you provide some good for this city, with your charity work and whatever else, does not mean you don't commit some bad as well. Your moral compass may be sideways, but that doesn't mean everyone else's is," Hermione tore her eyes away from his bare chest rising and falling rapidly. "You don't get to say what is right and wrong, no matter how clever you are nor how much power you obtain. Don't you get that?"

"That's not what I'm saying at all," he said in attempt to defend himself.

"Yes, it is!" Hermione snapped. "You blame me for everything that happened!"

"How can I not?" Countered Draco with a glare. Hermione sharply inhaled, offended beyond measure, and stood abruptly. "Wait," he said, standing with her and clasping a hand around her wrist to pull her back. "I didn't mean it like that,"

"Yes," she hissed. "Yes, you bloody did."

"No – I – Hermione," he tried.

She was fuming. Hermione tipped the bottle in her free hand back so that the clear liquid stung her lips, numbed the back of her throat, and trickled down her chin. Draco swiped the liquor from her grasp, and discarded it somewhere behind him, where she couldn't reach it.

"Hey," he whispered. His tone, for the first time in a long time, was calm and kind. Hermione blinked through the blurriness, focusing on the silver glint of his eyes in the moonlight. "Hey," he said again, "Don't do that. Please, don't do that,"

"Why?" She slurred. "Because it's not your coping mechanism? Because _you_ don't have to down half a bottle just to make it through the day?"

Draco pursed his lips.

"Who says that I don't, hm?" He retorted. His eyes searched her face, and after a moment he added, "This isn't _you_."

Hermione's hands balled into fists, and she swiveled to face him. "How dare you," she said. "How dare you pretend to care about me, or pretend to know me - "

He raked a hand through his hair, cutting her off. "Of course, I don't know you, because I don't know who you are anymore!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Draco, are you ever going to let that go?"

Draco continued to vent, while Hermione went on screaming and interrupted him. "I'm not even _talking_ about that right now, but how am I supposed to get over something like that, hm? I don't know what about you is real, which parts were Penny - "

"I _told_ you - "

" – and besides, I was referring to this alcoholic version of Hermione that has been walking the halls of the Manor - "

"_Alcoholic?_" Screeched Hermione.

Draco flung his hands in the air, "Yes, alcoholic! You said so yourself you have to drink copious amounts to get through the day - "

"Well, now you're just twisting my words around, Draco. It was a fucking exaggeration!"

" – You are too brilliant, too clever, to go down this road, Hermione." Draco went on. "But if you don't fucking take care of yourself, or get some bloody _help_,"

"I don't need _you_ preaching to me about getting help. You're the one who needs help! You're the one who still wants me to smile and wave for the press, and to stand beside you like the _dutiful girlfriend_ I supposedly am when behind closed doors you won't even talk to me." She wailed, throwing her words at him like knives. "You practically imprisoned me, Draco! You tell me what I can and cannot do, what I can and cannot say - "

"I told you," he argued. "The press can be vile, vindictive - "

"And you can't?" Hermione hissed, cutting him off. "Besides, I wasn't even referring to when we're in front of the press, Draco, and you know it. This is the most we've said to each other in fucking months! I can't take this anymore, Draco. I can't pretend like everything is fine when _it's not_, and I can't keep up this façade any longer - "

"Funny, how you put it like that. Does it bother you that we're pretending to be something we're not? I would have thought you would be entirely in your element with that." He snarled.

"_Fuck you_," she cried. Hermione felt the tears prick behind her eyes and knew she didn't have much left in her to hold them back. "I'm hurting," she choked out, backing away and swiping furiously at her eyes. "If you're going to be like this, then I don't know if I can stay and put on this show for the public anymore. I don't give a fuck about your precious power scheme. I only wanted to see if we could work things out, and get over this, but clearly neither is possible." She hiccupped, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I'm _hurting_, but you're obviously not, and I can't - "

"I am bloody hurting, Hermione. Every _fucking _day, I suffer. I'm not so heartless that I don't – _Fuck_ – We lost a _baby_,"

His voice broke over the last word, and his hand rose to close over his mouth. It was only then, with Hermione's anger dissipated by the lingering horror of the statement between them, that she noticed the tears already streaming down Draco's face.

She sniffled, swallowing a heartbreaking sob.

Draco closed his eyes momentarily. When they opened again, they were bloodshot, but the sparkling silver captured Hermione's heart like it did every time it focused on her. He opened his arms, and Hermione collapsed into them.

The two of them stood there, enveloped in each other's arms, and cried. It was horrendous, but also beautiful, to have that moment. There was a sense of emptiness, but also belonging, that existed between them as they clung to each other.

Hermione's tear-stained cheek was pressed against Draco's bare chest. She could hear every miserable, erratic beat of his heart and knew that hers was going through the same motions. They had both lost something, and the world would never be the same for it.

"The baby would have been born today, Madam Pomfrey predicted," murmured Hermione when both of their racking sobs slowed, coating the room in silence.

"I know," replied Draco. His fingers stroked her unruly curls; whether the motion was more soothing for him or for Hermione, she couldn't tell. "I know," he said again. "I knew you would be here."

_Here_ being the would-be nursery for the would-be baby had it lived.

Hermione lost the baby. The miscarriage was likely due to the trauma her body sustained, Madam Pomfrey informed her. It was the night she and Draco revealed he was no longer a missing person and announced his intention to run for parliament. They were cuddled up in her old bedroom upstairs, and he woke her in the middle of the night to let her know that she must have had an accident. Hermione panicked; embarrassed, she flicked on the desk lamp. To her horror, the wetness they both felt had been from a pool of blood between her legs.

It was possibly the worst night of her life.

Tonight, was no better.

"I didn't want you to be alone tonight." Draco whispered in her ear, placing a sweet kiss beneath it. "If I'm being honest," he went on, "I didn't want to be alone tonight, either. I wanted to be with you, because you're the only person who understands this pain."

Hermione sniffled, then turned her head to look up at him and meet his eyes. When the flash of silver swam into her blurry vision, she leaned forward on the balls of her feet and placed her lips gingerly against his.

The kiss was hardly a kiss at all.

Her lips brushed against his softly, testing the waters. She inhaled his breath, then rocked forward on her feet a bit more to apply a bit more pressure. Neither of them moved; neither of them so much as took a breath for several long seconds. Then, Draco cupped his hand behind her head and deepened the kiss.

His tongue danced along her bottom lip, and Hermione readily opened her mouth, welcoming it. The kiss was frenzied and desperate, with hands tangled in hair, hips thrust against one another, and gasps for air. The old spark, the old flame that was perfunctorily their relationship, rose from its dying embers in that embrace. Their obvious attraction for each other had not let up in all of their time apart. Deep down, they both knew this would not be healthy for the reparation of their friendship or relationship.

Hermione's chest ached; she had wanted to be loved – and be loved by _him_ – for so long that she felt starved for his touch. Based on Draco's roaming hands, perhaps he felt the same for her.

If this was it for them and there was nothing more to come from their relationship after all these years, then there would at least be this night. This one last time.

Hermione's hands wrapped behind Draco's neck, pulling him closer to her – closer, closer, _closer_ – and, in turn, Draco pressed his palm to the small of her back, holding her against his bare chest. Suddenly, the silk draped over Hermione's body burned. It scratched, suffocated, and begged to be free of her; with the help of Draco's attentive hands, Hermione willingly obliged.

The stifling air sent a chill up her spine, but the heat of Draco's bare skin was enough to keep her warm in the bare room. When it was clear, there would be no turning back from this kiss, Draco took the opportune moment to lay Hermione down on the hard-oak floorboards.

Draco bit her lip, drawing droplets of blood from it. Hermione didn't mind. The pain was familiar, and the physical representation of it was a pleasant distraction from the mental pain she suffered daily. Hermione dug her nails into the hardened muscles of his back, dragging them down his spine and leaving angry marks behind. He didn't seem to mind; his response, predictably, was to rid himself of the only layer of clothing left between them.

Draco paused.

His silver eyes glinted in the moonlight, and he stopped kissing her for half a breath to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. Hermione recognized the sentiment, as well as the hidden question within it.

_Are you sure?_

She replied in the only way she knew how. Hermione raked a hand through his long hair, placed a kiss beneath his structured jawline, and wrapped her legs around his waist. Bucking her hips up to meet his, she met his gaze with a hazy, intoxicated one of her own. Draco inhaled sharply, then thrust into her with one slow, tantalizing movement.

Neither originally wanted to give in, but now that they had, neither could stop.

Hermione lost herself in loving him.

The sense of fulfillment (literally) flooded her senses and drugged her mind. He was _here_ with _her_ and that was all the mattered in that moment. Hermione, once a lonely and fucked up planet, had been ensnared in his orbit and defined by his gravitation. Then, she'd been cast aside, obliterated by comets and meteors alike, only to come up undefeated. There she was, wrapped in his arms and burning from his touch, and it was no different from the very first time. It was hot, desperate, and she _craved_ it.

Draco buried himself, and likely his demons, into her. Thrust after thrust after _thrust_. A ball of light built within her – an old friend which she greeted with open arms – and threatened to burst. When Draco slowed his pace, tucking her legs over his shoulders and nearly bending her in half, the ball of light shattered.

Hermione rode out her orgasm with the help of Draco's dexterous fingers inside of her, pleasuring her.

By the time she caught her breath, Hermione was spent, but seeing Draco struggling to feel the same satisfaction in release, leaned forward to prop herself on her elbows. She steadied her heartbeat enough to maneuver them into a different position. This time, Draco lie with his spine digging into the hardwood. Hermione perched above him, straddling him to the floor, and lowered herself onto his erection.

They both inhaled sharply, hissing under their breath as two become one, once again.

One thing Hermione used to doubt, that she no longer did, was how well she knew Draco. He liked it rough in the beginning, then affectionate in the end, and fuck all that was what she would give him. Anything he wanted – _anything_ – and he would have it, if she could help it. Because in that moment, this night, they would be there for each other above all else.

It was them against the world.

Her legs began to shake as she was nearing another climax. Draco lurched forward, entangling his hands in Hermione's hair. She pulled on his lower lip, rolling it between her teeth, then kissed along his jawline. A groan emanated from between his lips, and he clenched his thighs against hers, trapping her body, slick with sweat, to his.

"Hermione," he murmured against the base of her throat when he came.

They both collapsed on the floor, taking deep, ragged breaths. She curled into his side, trailing a finger down his chest, along his temple, and across his collarbones. Hermione inhaled the scent of sweat and sex in the air.

"Draco," she whispered, fighting to keep her eyes open and failing.

* * *

Hermione woke the next morning to the sun streaming through the windows. She blinked, squinting through the harsh morning light to see Winky pulling the drapes back and propping open the windows. Immediately, the room filled with the song of blackcaps chirping. Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples and willing the migraine to sort itself out before she stormed outside and practiced her rifle technique out on the damned birds.

Winky smiled dottily at her. "Good morning, Miss Granger," the young staff member said. Hermione mumbled a pitiful greeting, then sat up in bed. Finished preparing the bedroom for the morning, complete with running a bath, Winky dutifully threw aside the rosy duvet Hermione hid under.

"Did you sleep well, miss?" Winky asked, batting her extraordinarily long lashes at Hermione.

She blinked.

"I – I think so," she muttered truthfully.

Winky ushered her out of bed and into the porcelain tub. The frigid water instantly woke Hermione up; she nearly leapt out of the tub from how quickly she sank into the water, trusting it to be _at least_ lukewarm.

"Mother of - " Hermione swore, biting down on her tongue. "Winky!" She wailed, gesturing to the water as she stepped out of the bath and wrapped a towel around herself. "This is _freezing_. Why on earth would you - "

"Winky is so sorry, miss!" She yowled. "Winky never meant to cause miss any harm - "

"I'm not _harmed_, per se," groaned Hermione as she leaned against the counter. The decorative glass her toothbrush sat in caught her eye, and Hermione dumped out its contents in favor of filling it with tap water. She barely brought the glass to her lips before catching Winky's bulging eyes.

"Miss Granger!" Winky wept, foregoing refilling the bathtub to approach Hermione. "Miss mustn't drink from a _used_ glass. Oh, Winky is such an awful servant. Winky is not suitable for miss, no, not suitable at all." She tried to take the glass from Hermione's grasp, but she dodged the effort.

"Winky, it's _fine_," Hermione told her firmly. "I won't tell anyone, I promise. Just – Fill up the bath, will you?" After a few more reassurances, Hermione managed to get Winky back on track as well as finish her glass of water. Her head, feeling slightly less fuzzy, was grateful for it.

The water, now scalding, soothed Hermione's muscles. They ached terribly. Presumably from the time she spent lying on the hardwood floors across the hall, but –

Had that even happened? Hermione pondered the possibility that it hadn't (she _had_ woken up in her own bed, hadn't she?) and found herself struggling for a clear answer. Amidst her trying to recall whether the interaction with Draco last night – and the sex – was a figment of her vodka-induced imagination, or whether it actually happened, Winky interrupted her.

"Would miss like Winky to prepare her three shots this morning, yet?"

Hermione turned her head toward the figure in the doorway and noticed the bottle in Winky's hands. It was the same exact bottle she thought she scampered across the hall with last night, except this bottle was full almost to the brim. There was no sizeable dent from however much she supposed she must have drunken last night. Odd…

"No," she replied with a wave of her hand. "I won't be needing those anymore. I've quit." Hermione leaned her head back on the lip of the porcelain tub and closed her eyes. A split-second later, she opened them again because the room spun the moment they were shut. "In fact," she added to Winky, shouting it across the room. "Why don't you go ahead and empty out that entire drawer for me, Winky. I believe I'm tired of that dreadful habit I developed."

Real or not, Hermione could not seem to get Draco's reprimanding words out of her head.

_Please don't do that. This isn't you._

"Are you sure, miss? Winky only just filled up the bottles this morning before Winky woke you. Winky would hate to empty the bottles if miss changes miss's mind and wants them - "

"That's quite alright, Winky," assured Hermione with a tentative smile. "I won't be needing them, and if I do ask for any spirits, don't hesitate to tell me off." At the horror on the staff member's face, she chuckled and quirked her lips into a more genuine grin. "That's an order, Winky."

"Oh, certainly, miss. Right away, miss. Winky will empty out all the bottles! Winky would never disobey," she replied rapidly as she nearly sprinted out of the room and down the hall with a couple of bottles balanced precariously in her arms.

An hour or so later, Hermione emerged into the dining room to see its usual chaos in full swing.

Greg and Vince nodded mutely to her as she took a seat across from them. Both of their mouths were stuffed with fresh pancakes and cream. Hermione bit her lip and covered her mouth to keep from laughing at the pair of them acting like starved, hormonal teenagers.

Further down the table sat Daphne and Blaise, both bent over tea-stained parchments. There were manic motions from their quills as the worked feverishly on whatever they were working on. From her distance to them, Hermione couldn't exactly tell what that might be, and with the two of them, one never truly knew. It must have been interesting enough, she thought, since both of their plates remained untouched and shoved aside.

Hermione elbowed Theo, who sat in the chair to her immediate right, and pointed to the plate piled high with buttered toast. Although there were loads of pastries and other delicious breakfast foods scattering the long table, she didn't think she could stomach any of them. Their strong scents were bad enough on her upset stomach as it was.

"Oi," said Theo to Graham on the other side of him, "When's your eldest joining our ranks, eh? We're starting to get outnumbered here, mate, I think we could use another lad in the Manor."

"You're not outnumbered," mumbled Hermione, earning a disapproving look from Theo followed by a swift kick to her ankle.

"Not anytime soon if I can help it," replied Graham with a shake of his head. "He's only ten or something. Far too young." He paused, chewing and swallowing another bite of his scone before going on. "Little Flint, on the other hand, should be old enough any day now. I'll have to pop in and see what the little shit's been up to."

Hermione rolled her eyes at the two men, then diverted her attention away from their schemes. Even farther down the table sat Pansy, though her chair was far closer to Draco's at the head of the table than it was to Graham's. The two of them were involved in hushed conversation. From the rapid hand motions made by Pansy, and the blank expression across Draco's face, it must be something serious.

True to form, and validation for Hermione's theory, Narcissa strolled into the room, plucked a bowl of berries, and beelined for Draco and Pansy. The three of them, now, were huddled in their own little bubble. None of them paid any sense to the rest of the mayhem ensuing at the dining table.

It wasn't until Draco tilted his head up and met her eyes, that Hermione realized she'd been openly staring at them. She flushed. However, Hermione wasn't thinking clearly enough this morning, and her reflexes were severely lacking swift timing. So, when Draco held her gaze for a few seconds, then winked, before returning his attention to Narcissa and Pansy, Hermione's heart skipped a beat.

She was utterly confused, until it occurred to her that, perhaps, last night was not a dream, but reality.

_Winky only just filled up the bottles this morning before Winky woke you._

"Oh, fuck," she swore under her breath.

Although, Hermione had absolutely no idea as to where that left them now – seeing as having sex didn't resolve any of their issues with one another – but it _happened_. She couldn't help but think that maybe this wasn't the end for their relationship. The possibility that they could fight to get back to their golden era loomed in the back of her mind as she chewed on her meager breakfast.

Hermione, for the first time in a long time, glowed.

There was hope, after all.

* * *

"Here we go, ladies and gentlemen," announced Pansy, "and Theo," she added with a derisive smirk. He blew her a kiss in turn, which she mimed grasping, throwing it on the floor, and stomping on it. Theo feigned hurt but Pansy simply shrugged. "Only twenty-one more days until Doomsday." She stepped back from the fireplace to showcase her creation. It was a calendar with a red star on the fifteenth of September.

Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion. "Doomsday?" She questioned to no one in particular. The few of them who had little to do that afternoon were all sat around the main family sitting room. Hermione's gaze instinctively fell on Theo, the closest person to her in the room.

"Doomsday," he confirmed, not understanding the point of her inquiry. She shook her head, then opened her mouth to explain what she meant, but he raised a hand to stop her. "I know what you meant, Granger, there's no need to be a swot about it." His lips quirked into a smirk before he went on. "The fifteenth of September is the day Draco will be officially anointed a lord by His Majesty the King."

Hermione blinked.

This time, it was Pansy who spoke up. "If you think Draco is unbearable now, just imagine how much worse it will be when he is _adored_ and _revered_ as Lord Malfoy." She feigned a gagging motion before crossing the room to stretch out on the loveseat.

"Ah," exhaled Hermione. "Doomsday." An unpleasant thought pricked at the forefront of her mind, and Hermione could not keep from voicing her concern. "Oh god, that means my role as his 'girlfriend'," – she used air quotes – "will be scrutinized even more so because the public thinks I'll be _Lady Malfoy_." Hermione remarked with horror.

Pansy pursed her lips.

"Absolutely," she told Hermione. "Don't rule yourself out so quickly either. Just because it's an act now doesn't mean it will always be an act."

Hermione frowned inwardly, careful not to express the dreadful knot in her stomach at the thought that, perhaps, Draco had talked about what happened a few weeks ago to Pansy. Her gaze slid unhelpfully over to Theo, who refused to meet her eye.

Despite the talk of Hermione carrying on with Draco as if nothing was wrong, and, worse, the idea that their relationship would eventually be genuine again, Hermione felt lost as ever. Since her true identity had been discovered, there hadn't been much discussion regarding what would happen with her. The family meeting had done very little to clear it up, either.

It had been a few days after she and Draco had gone public about their relationship, painting it as though it was a newfound love formed from her many years of service to the family company. However, the meeting was also held a few days after she and Draco lost the baby so, Hermione had been exceptionally withdrawn. She sat numb and mute in an armchair by the hearth while Draco, obviously coping differently, argued with nearly every member of the family.

"Why doesn't she go back to the coppers and join Harry in his investigatory work?" Suggested Theo with a cigarette dangling precariously from his lips.

Draco grimaced, booming, "Absolutely not." When Theo raised a finger to take the opportunity of twisting Draco's words around to _Absolutely, Nott_, Draco quickly shot that down. He narrowed his eyes viciously in Theo's direction and hissed, "Don't." Addressing the rest of the family, he added, "She can't be trusted. Simple enough."

"Well, what do you expect her to do then?" Astoria chimed in, playing solicitor for her dear friend. Her hands brushed Hermione's curls down the length of her back as she perched on the edge of the arm of her chair. "You claim she can't be trusted – can't be let out of our sight – but you won't give her any proper work to do here, either."

"She lied to us about who she is and what she represents for _five fucking years_," roared Draco. He knocked back the remainder of his whiskey and slammed the crystal glass down on the drink cart. "If it were up to me," he said. "She'd be locked in a room until further notice."

"You don't mean that," reprimanded Narcissa with a derogatory scowl. "She's grieving – you _both _are – besides, she's clearly chosen whose side she stands for. Among many other pieces of evidence, my son, she saved your _life _-"

"Which is precisely why I am not suggesting we do away with her, _Mother_," Draco quipped in response.

"So, your plan is to lock her away and effectively wrap her in a straitjacket?" Astoria criticized. "That's going to do a load of rubbish for everyone here. We all know she's quickly become the brains of the bloody Death Eaters as much as _you_ are," she threatened, aiming an accusatory cigarette toward Draco. "If you let her waste away, then you'll lose more than her intelligence. You'll lose _her_."

"Good."

Astoria inhaled sharply, meeting Narcissa's eye for validation, "Draco," she began to chastise.

"_What_?" He seethed. "What do you want me to do? Hand her important Malfoy Company Limited documents and let her run free with them? Let her stick her nose in places it doesn't belong? She's no good on the outside – who knows what fucking connections she has that we don't know about – and she's no good with us." Draco jabbed a finger in Theo's direction, "Would you trust her with Nott Holdings documents?" Theo hesitated but ultimately shook his head. Draco then pointed to Pansy and Daphne, "How about you two? Fancy hiring our precious _Miss Hermione Granger_ for some of your fine projects?" Both women mumbled their negative responses. "See?"

"Oh, fuck off," snapped Astoria. "She's going to spiral into nothingness faster than you if she has nothing to occupy her mind with." Her pale green eyes flickered to Hermione's vacant expression, then back to Draco. "She needs something to do – _anything_."

Draco scowled, mulling over a decisive plan.

Finally, he lit a cigarette and exhaled several clouds of smoke before approaching Astoria. "Fine." He said. "Fine, she can do bloody women's crafts during the day if you're so concerned about her fucking mind." Draco bent down, tilting his head at Hermione curled around a velvet pillow. "If you ask me, I don't think her mind is one bit in danger of wasting away. I bet she's as sharp and snakelike as the rest of us." He stood up, meeting his mother's wary eyes. "Just you wait and see. This is just another one of her ploys. It's a trap."

"Get out," Narcissa hissed, shoving Draco toward the door. "Go cool off. You aren't thinking clearly. No woman would knowingly risk her _unborn bloody child_ for a fucking copper that was ready to kill her. No woman would go through this insufferable pain for the likes of you and your bloody company secrets, either. Get your head out of your fucking ass, my darling son, and screw it on right."

The rest of the room was silent, watching Narcissa and Draco fume at one another with beady eyes. Since that day, there was no talk of what would come of Hermione. She had been informed, either by Winky or by Astoria before she left the Manor for the summer, that her position was unclear. Her days were filled with mindless crafts such as knitting, sewing, and painting. Now and then, she was allowed a novel.

At first, Hermione didn't complain.

She simply woke up, had a drink, then went about her day. Her mind and body were numb to everything. But, as the intended due date of her unborn child drew nearer, she began to slowly wake up. That was when she began listening more closely to conversations in the Manor and questioning why she was or wasn't allowed to participate in certain tasks.

The rest of the family did little other than shrug and chalk it up to Draco.

It drove her mad.

Which is why it was especially hard to believe, over the past few weeks, that there may be a shift in his feelings toward her. The notion that even _Pansy_ taunted Hermione with a potential future for her and Draco, was unthinkable. Yet, there it was.

"Pansy," drawled Hermione carefully.

"Yes?"

Her dark eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Hermione's cautious tone and nervous fidgeting.

"There has to be something I can get involved in that isn't bloody knitting a pathetic scarf, isn't there?" She fretted. "I know I can't be seen working on anything controversial but - "

"Yes, you have to be very careful now that you're the official woman on Draco's arm, and he has every intention on securing a position in parliament. If it were up to me – or even Narcissa – you would already be campaigning to end world hunger, promote women's rights, or something of the charitable sort." She paused, her gaze flickering up and down Hermione's frame. "However, it's not up to us, and Draco doesn't want you - "

"I know, I know," she sighed. "Still, there has to be _something_."

Theo chose that moment to stride across the room toward her. His pale blue eyes fell on her shoulder, and Hermione refrained from wincing, knowing what was coming. "You would have to do something that didn't require a lot of activity, though." He tilted his head, arching a dark brow reproachfully. "How's your shoulder recovering? Winky tells me you constantly shout at the healer."

Hermione bristled. "Well, Winky must have taken to spreading rumors, then."

"Oh, has she now?" Theo mocked. Without any hesitation, Theo dug his thumb into the space just below her clavicle, and Hermione screamed bloody murder. He drew back, pursing his lips. "I thought so. Didn't Narcissa warn you against not listening to the healer?"

Hermione, now favoring her injured shoulder, bit back tears and a long stream of obscenities. "To hell with what Narcissa thinks. It's not her bloody shoulder, is it?"

"Tsk-tsk," tutted Narcissa as she strode into the room adorned in the newest line of Chanel skirt suits. "Watch your fucking mouth, Granger, or I'll make sure Winky no longer allows you access to our finest liquors." Her eyes glinted at the recognition on Hermione's face. "Oh, yes. I'm quite aware of your little habit. You'll find, Miss Granger, that I know everything that goes on in the Manor."

Hermione resisted the urge to tell her _Penny_ went on in the Manor for five bloody years.

Instead, she pursed her lips and bit the inside of her cheek. Hermione attempted to sit as straight as she could notwithstanding the throbbing pain in her shoulder. "I don't do that anymore," she told Narcissa, inclining her chin subtly. "You can tell Winky whatever you like, but I haven't required those services for nearly a month now."

"What do you want – a congratulations?" Narcissa teased. Hermione grimaced, daring not to break eye contact with the woman. Ultimately, it paid off, because she sighed and beckoned for Hermione to leave the room with her.

"Where are we going?" She asked, trailing behind as they headed through the maze-like corridors of the house. Narcissa didn't answer, which was typical, though Hermione had hoped she would have been more forthcoming. After a few minutes, the two women emerged into a small room; there was a raised platform in the center of the room, surrounded on three sides by tall mirrors. Off of the walls were rows of shoes, closets full of dresses, and vanities stacked with makeup. "Another gown for an event?" Hermione guessed aloud.

Narcissa waved her hand, lightly dismissing the theory. "You are always going to need one of those, however, I brought you here this time because you need clothes better suited for your new job."

"New job?"

"Yes," replied Narcissa impatiently. "Did I fucking stutter?"

"No, ma'am," said Hermione, earning a disapproving glare from her.

"Don't call me ma'am." She ordered. Hermione obediently nodded, going along nicely out of genuine curiosity as to what job could possibly be in store for her. She hoped it was something thought-provoking, though she wouldn't be surprised if it was another silly housewife role or glamour position for the press. "Now," Narcissa went on, clapping her hands to welcome several seamstresses into the quaint room. "Let's get started."

* * *

Hermione slid across the leather seat behind Draco and waited for his proffered hand to help her down, but it never came. Instead, Draco sauntered off toward the door leading upstairs to the main floor of the Manor, leaving Hermione to fumble out of the vehicle by herself. The corset in this event's gown suffocated her and restricted her mobility. Next time, she mused internally, she would insist that Daphne draw up a more flexible dress.

By the time she made it up the stairs, navigated the corridors, and collapsed on the sofa in the corner of the dressing room, Hermione was half out of breath. Without hesitation, she ripped the ribbon from her spine and took her first full inhalation that day.

"There you are," exhaled Narcissa. Impatience dripped from her beautiful waves; the jet-black locks of hair bouncing effortlessly across her back to reveal the stark white ones beneath them. "Come," she said, snapping her fingers at Hermione. "We have a meeting to attend."

Hermione groaned, "Can't I have a moment to catch my breath?"

Narcissa paused, seemingly considering the proposition, but a few seconds later she snapped her fingers at Hermione again. "There, you've had your moment. Now, get moving." She crossed the room and selected a bright lavender dress suit from one of the closets, tossing it in Hermione's lap. "Put this on. Meet me downstairs in two minutes. Don't be late."

She groaned, falling back against the cushions the moment the door slammed shut.

An hour later, Kreacher parked the family car – a sleek red number with beige leather interior; Narcissa's new favorite – in front of an enormous mansion outside the city. Hermione trailed behind Narcissa, struggling not to lose her footing on the loose pebbled driveway.

"Narcissa," she gasped, forcing her strides to match the elder woman's. "Where are we? What does this have to do with Malfoy Company Limited, and why did you choose me to work for you?" Hermione panted.

Her head whipped around so quickly that the knot from her half-up do came loose despite its hundreds of pins. "You ask too many questions," she reprimanded. Hermione sighed inwardly, feeling a slight wave of déjà vu at the accusation. Then, Narcissa's pale eyes fixed on Hermione sharply and caused her to choke on her next labored breath. She stared for several seconds before adding, "You have a head for maths," with no further explanation.

"Maths?" Hermione whispered, unconvinced.

Narcissa pursed her lips, clearly disappointed in Hermione's lack of finesse, but otherwise not finding the effort to openly disapprove. "Yes." She sighed, facing back toward the house. "Come along. I don't have time to sit here and stroke your ego. We have meetings to attend to,"

Hermione frowned.

Since Draco announced he would be running for a seat in the House of Commons, he formally stepped back as Chairman of his company and offered the position to his mother. She took on this particular role quite often so, there was little fuss about it in the papers. What was more interesting, however, was when it became evident that Draco was among the favored men looking to gain a seat in parliament that fall. The king favored Draco, despite not being legally allowed to put his weight behind any particular man.

To cover his preference – poorly, but still – the king proclaimed Draco deserved to be anointed lordship. Thus, providing him the opportunity to run for a seat in the House of Lords instead (a more prestigious seat in parliament, among other men of his class).

This, in turn, prompted Draco to announce that his mother would be taking on a more permanent role in his company so that he may focus all of his attention on his civil service as a member of parliament, should he be elected by the people. His words, quoted by Rita Skeeter, not Hermione's. Though, it did end up working out for her, months later, when Narcissa offered her a position on the board.

Furthermore, Miss Hermione Granger became the Chief Executive Officer of Malfoy Company Limited, and Narcissa's right-hand woman.

Although, Draco was expected to step back from his lucrative business in order to better serve the public – should he be successful in attaining a seat in parliament – there was no expectation for his supposed partner to do the same. Hermione thought this was a result of the patriarchy not finding it plausible – nor possible – that a woman on Draco's arm would be capable of thought and reason.

Nonetheless, Hermione, now in an entirely better mindset than she had been in all year, readily accepted the new position and started accompanying Narcissa to various board and client meetings. This errand, supposedly, was one of the latter.

"You never mentioned _who _we would be meeting with today." Hermione observed aloud.

"No. I didn't." Narcissa replied. She greeted the butler at the door, following him through the lavish mansion to the backyard. There was a beautiful display of garden chairs, cushions, and a dainty table. Vibrant colors, delicious cakes, and English breakfast tea filled the sitting area, bringing to life what Hermione envisioned to be a rich, summer tea party.

"Tea," she breathed, taking the seat the butler withdrew for her. "I thought you said we were going to a meeting. Is this another one of your detours?" Hermione pressed, determined to get a straight answer out of Narcissa.

"This _is_ a meeting," snapped Narcissa. "Now," she said, placing a serviette neatly across her lap, "cross your ankles, sit up straight, and pay attention to what is said. Actually," she said, correcting herself, "focus on what is _not _said." Narcissa clasped her perfectly manicured hands in her lap, arching a brow at Hermione. Immediately, she mimicked Narcissa's ladylike pose with effort. "You are an avid reader, are you not?" Hermione nodded. Narcissa went on, inclining her head. "You read people in order to better understand them and how to manipulate them. You learn how to deceive them, and expertly so." Hermione couldn't help but grimace at the comment, but Narcissa waved her away impatiently. "This is how women work, Miss Granger, and you should be the most practiced among us. This is the art of deception, as it were,"

This time, Hermione outright gaped.

"Don't be offended, stupid girl, what you did was cruel but remarkable." Narcissa told her. "Most people would not have been able to do what you did so well, and certainly not for as long. However," she paused, twisting a large ruby ring Hermione knew to hold a dose of poison underneath the stone, "you pull a bloody stunt like that again, and I'll personally see to it that that is the last thing you do. Are we clear?"

Hermione nodded, "Crystal," she murmured.

Silence enveloped the tea table, which remained untouched as the hostess had yet to join them. Eventually, Narcissa spoke up again. "Don't mind my son," she advised. "He'll come to his senses. You both will."

Though, Hermione didn't quite believe her. The cold shoulder Draco had taken to giving Hermione, after the drunken sexual encounter, felt personal and vengeful. It was as if he was punishing her for that night, and the only way his fucked up mind reasoned against it happening again was to distance himself from her. He wasn't necessarily as nasty to her as he had been before they had sex, but he wasn't friendly either. Hermione was reasonably self-aware, and she knew that just because he wasn't screaming horrible accusations at her didn't necessarily mean he didn't still blame her.

Hermione fixed her gaze on the fine china rather than meet Narcissa's piercing eyes. "I wouldn't be so sure about him," she mumbled.

Narcissa's eyes hardened; she loathed mumbling, which Hermione knew, but refrained from criticizing her which was remarkable on its own. "Believe me, my dear," Narcissa insisted. "You won't be going anywhere any time soon. There is no getting rid of you." She sighed deeply. "Lord knows I've tried too many times, and if I wasn't successful before, then I doubt I will be now."

Hermione's brows furrowed, and she pursed her lips. "Lovely, thank you, Narcissa. I feel so loved," she mocked.

The older woman raised a pale hand to her chest, feigning shock. "Oh, my apologies," she replied in an icy tone. "That wasn't my intention."

The tell-tale clack of heels on flagstone alerted both of them to a new arrival. Narcissa stood to greet the woman walking toward them, offering a kiss on either side of her face, and Hermione followed in her steps, mimicking her greeting. This woman smelled of expensive perfume; a summer breeze flowing through a lavender field with a hive of bees pollinating the flowers. She wore a garish golden dress, tights and heels. Aside from her horrendous costume and makeup, however, Hermione could see the beauty of the older woman sitting across from her. More than that, Hermione spotted familiarities in her high cheek bones, sleek black waves, and piercing gaze.

"Bellatrix," drawled Narcissa with a smile painted across her lips.

"So formal, Cissy!" The other woman cooed, half reprimanding. Then, she turned her attention to Hermione and gasped as if noticing her for the first time. Even though she had just kissed her cheeks mere seconds ago. "Oh, hello. You are…?"

Hermione blinked.

"Miss Granger," she supplied after a moment to recollect herself.

It hadn't mattered, though, because the woman had already shifted her attention back to Narcissa. "My sister has always kept the most interesting company," she trilled, returning the plastic smile. The two women went on chit-chatting over designers, the weather, among other nonsense. Meanwhile, Hermione couldn't help but survey the similarities between them with new eyes. _Sisters_, she mused internally.

"Oh!" Bellatrix gasped, jarring Hermione from her internal reverie and simultaneously reminding her she was supposed to be working during this tea party. Bellatrix flitted her hand in front of Narcissa excitedly, "I have a new friend that you _must_ meet, my dear sister. My precious nephew as well – Yes – They would be great friends, I think."

Narcissa's lips twitched into a small smile, but her eyes glinted something dangerous. "What kind of friend, Bella?" She proposed innocently. "Your kind of friend of the normal kind of friend?"

"_Cissy!_"

Bellatrix raised her serviette to her lips, touching the edges cautiously. Hermione could see the flush on her cheeks was ingenuine from the smirk in her dark eyes, but she was thoroughly impressed in the woman's ability to conjure a reaction like that. It would certainly fool most people – men especially. Narcissa, conversely, arched a dark brow at her sister and gave Bellatrix her best _I don't give a fuck_ expression she generally shared with Hermione.

"So," she pressed. "Are you sleeping with him or not?"

"Well," responded Bellatrix, straightening her posture. "I would _never_ disclose that information. How very unladylike."

Narcissa grinned into her teacup, pausing to take a sip before saying, "Since when are you a lady, my dear sister?" Hermione's eyes bulged momentarily before she schooled her face into a blank expression. Narcissa went on, nodding to herself, "You_ are_ sleeping with him then. Is this one at least handsome? You know how much I detest your fancying Neanderthals."

"_Cissy,_" inhaled Bellatrix sharply, narrowing her eyes. "How dare you speak of my husband like that! How crude! Have you absolutely no manners?" She shrieked.

Narcissa pursed her lips, not bothering to hide her smirk. "I made no mention of your husband's name, Bella. If you presumed that I was referring to Rodolphus, then I suggest you take that up with yourself." Hermione bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from laughing. She was in awe of Narcissa, who continued without missing a beat to add, "Anyway, why should I trust your professional opinion on this man?"

Bellatrix pouted briefly, then regained her ecstatic demeaner and leaned forward with a biscuit in her hand. "He's ever so clever," she whispered to her sister, "just like your darling Draco. I believe he would make a wonderful asset for my nephew as he explores his new political career." She leaned back in her chair conspiratorially, dunking the biscuit in her tea. "I'll set up an appointment for you. When are you available?"

"Tuesday," input Hermione without thinking.

Narcissa glared at her, and Hermione shrunk back, embarrassed to have stepped out of line. She caught the devilish grin spreading across Bellatrix's face. Hermione seethed, not enjoying how victorious she must feel having caught a weakness of Narcissa's. To cover her mistake, Hermione shrugged.

"You said so yourself we have to fill the afternoon since the family meeting with Draco was called off." She lied effortlessly, then turned to Bellatrix and added in a whisper, "King George requested to meet with Draco again, you know,"

The immediate angry flush that swept across Bellatrix's face had been worth the fib. Judging from the smirk hinting at the corners of Narcissa's mouth, Hermione would be forgiven.

"Quite right, Miss Granger," chimed Narcissa. She turned attention back to her sister with a proud inclination in her chin. "Tuesday it is, Bella. What is this bloke's name, after all?"

Bellatrix hesitated. She smoothed her dress absently, then sighed heavily before curating a carefree expression across her face in order to hide how put-out Hermione's comment about Draco made her. Hermione suspected Bellatrix didn't have any children, or, at least, any to be proud of; she certainly didn't have any so friendly with the King of Great Britain.

"He's not _just_ a bloke, Cissy," she fussed. "He's a _lord_."

Narcissa arched a brow but desisted from outwardly commenting. Soon, Draco would be a lord as well, which all three women were well aware of. "Fine," Narcissa sighed. "What is this _lord's_ name, then?"

Bellatrix chose to analyze her fingernails rather than meet her sister's eye when she replied.

"Tom Riddle."

* * *

**A/N - **Welcome! I am so pleased to be writing a sequel and starting a new adventure with this storyline, and I hope you are, too! The playlist is still being finalized and will be available soon. I know this chapter was a bit sad/dark but don't worry, the mood will pick up as Dramione draw closer together again and the plot thickens. Thank you in advance for all of your love in beginning this sequel.

The title for this chapter comes from the song titled _Monster_ by Kanye West, featuring JAY-Z, Rick Ross, Nicki Minaj and Bon Iver. The title specifically comes from the lines (by Nicki) _you could be the king, but watch the queen conquer / ok, first things first, I'll eat your brains / then imma start rockin' gold teeth and fangs, 'cause that's what a motherfuckin' monster do _xx


	2. The Glitz and The Glam

**Chapter 2: The Glitz and The Glam**

* * *

_7 May 1929_

_WEDDING OF THE DECADE: _

_THE LOVE STORY OF MISS GRANGER AND LORD MALFOY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_It is difficult to imagine Miss Granger and Lord Malfoy with anyone other than themselves. They glow together, and shine like the stars in the night sky. However, as unbelievable as it sounds, the divine couple were not always together. In fact, the beginning of their love story reflects that of star-crossed lovers. _

Right now, you're probably thinking, "Holy fuck, Rita might be on to something factual for once!" But that would be incorrect. Per usual, Rita is entirely of course, despite the somewhat accurate _star-crossed lovers_ comment.

_While the rest of Great Britain was enthralled in the whirlwind romance between Lord Malfoy and either Miss Parkinson or Miss Greengrass – still unknown which! – we failed to notice Miss Granger and Mr. Theodore Nott, Jr. Yes – Miss Granger was rumored to be romantically involved with Lord Malfoy's best mate! The engaged couple has since dispelled such rumors, but one glance at old appearances show Miss Granger constantly on Mr. Nott's arm._

_Mr. Nott, when pressed about his relationship with Miss Granger and Lord Malfoy, said "I couldn't be happier for them. I love them both and want nothing but the best for them. Personally, I always believed they were endgame. Well," he chuckled. "Maybe not _always_." What a gentleman! Evidently, Mr. Nott has no hard feelings toward the future Lord and Lady Malfoy. It is interesting, though, that Mr. Nott remains unmarried and has been spotted with Miss Granger on more than one occasion. _

_Will Mr. Theodore Nott be our next beloved bachelor?_

_Or… is he fated to suffer in his unrequited love for Miss Granger?_

_Nevertheless, it is clear that Miss Granger's head will not be turned. Since the moment Miss Granger first appeared publicly on Lord Malfoy's arm, announcing their relationship, only the warmest intimacies have been witnessed between the pair. For both Miss Granger and Lord Malfoy, their love has blossomed. Just over four years later and the couple glows as though their honeymoon phase never ended. Perhaps, it hasn't! _

Is she joking?

Is she fucking serious?

It's genuinely comedic for Rita to claim my head will not be turned by anyone other than Draco when _she_ initially proposed to the British public that I was secretly in love with not only one, but _two_ other men (one mentioned in this bloody article, and the other conveniently left out). Rita believed I was involved in a bloody love square. At first, I thought it was simply because a love square sold more than a love triangle, but now I know differently.

I fucking hate shapes.

The rumors she slyly reference are none other than the ones _she_ wrote in the early days of my public "relationship" with Draco, as well. Obviously, Theo and I were never romantically involved. For fuck's sake… The other man, however, I cannot completely plead innocence with.

Oh, bloody hell, and don't even get me started on our never-ending honeymoon phase.

Draco and I weren't on good terms until roughly a year or so after we split up, meaning that during our first year in the spotlight, every intimate touch or smile was a façade. The "warmth" she, and apparently all of Britain, witnessed was purposefully curated by Narcissa and Draco. The only reason I even went along with the whole bloody thing was because, frankly, I was lost. I didn't know who I was nor who I wanted to be.

That quickly changed, of course, once I met Tom.

Though, I _am_ currently writing my vows to Draco so, as fast and hard as I fell for Tom, it wouldn't last. Not that I knew that in the beginning.

* * *

_15 September 1925_

Hermione clutched the rich red satin in her fists and carefully descended the stairs. Luckily, this dress was better suited for her figure, and it didn't cut off her circulation or her breathing. A massive improvement on the gowns she'd been forced to wear the past nine months, and it was all thanks to Daphne's clever eye. Though, Hermione didn't know the other woman very well, it was clear Daphne Greengrass was extraordinarily talented. Her adjustments to the couture dress were marvelous.

"Why don't you pursue fashion?" Hermione asked her during one of the final fittings for this sleek red number.

Daphne scoffed, "My mother would _never _approve,"

She frowned.

"Your mother," Hermione mumbled. In general, there was no discussion of any other parental figures among the Death Eaters outside of Narcissa. Furthermore, it wasn't as if Daphne – or any of the others – were young and impressionable. In fact, two of them _were_ parents themselves. "Daph," she ventured. "You're not a child. Do you really need to listen to your mother's opinion on what you should or shouldn't be allowed to do?"

Daphne pressed her lips into a thin line. "Don't you think I know that, Hermione?" She snapped. "It may be 1925, but women are just as repressed in society as they were nearly one hundred years ago. I'm an unmarried woman, and, as far as I'm concerned, I will always be an unmarried woman. My life is not mine; it is my parents." She huffed, pausing her work to glare at Hermione. "Just because your parents aren't overbearing and demanding that you follow society's rules for women, does not mean those rules don't exist. You may be above them, Hermione, but not every woman is," she warned, arching a golden eyebrow.

"But," spluttered Hermione, unable to grasp Daphne's hesitance to break the glass ceiling. "You are a highly educated, accomplished, and talented individual."

"Yes," snapped Daphne impatiently, "…_and?_"

Hermione stuttered incomprehensibly.

Daphne sighed, "It's cute that you think that changes anything."

Jarred from her reverie, Hermione nearly tripped as she came around the corner. She stepped into the foyer to see half of the household exchanging anxious glances and shrugging tense shoulders, and quickly stepped back into the corridor. Hermione counted to three slowly, to ensure none of them had seen her, then strained to listen in on their hushed conversation.

"Draco, my child," hissed Narcissa. "Have you ever considered that this could be a trap?"

"Of course, I have, Mother," he replied exasperated. "It's not a trap; it's a favor." He flicked a light over the cigarette dangling from his lips and inhaled the bittersweet nicotine. From his furrowed brows, Hermione could tell his mind was working overtime trying to identify ever possible outcome and weigh them against the reward. Whatever this so-called favor was, she thought, it must be extremely worthwhile because he appeared to struggle immensely.

"You can't seriously be considering this," his mother went on, snapping her fingers in his face. "He may not be your idol, but that doesn't mean he isn't bright." She shook her head, reaching for a crystal decanter to refill her glass. "You can't do it. Absolutely, not. It's ridiculous."

"You're quite right," he agreed, nodding slowly. "_I _can't do it."

Draco's grey eyes, clear and piercing, settled on Theo across the circle of people standing about. Narcissa, noticing the emphasis in Draco's statement followed by the subtle nod from Theo in response, waved her glass in the air between them.

"No." Narcissa glared at the two of them, "_No_."

Theo, however, chose to ignore her. This took Hermione by surprise because, under normal circumstances, Theo would never blatantly disregard Narcissa's opinion. He and Narcissa were the only family members to ever question Draco's decisions, but this must be an exceptional circumstance because Theo didn't so much as utter a single protest. The two men exchanged a series of hand gestures, and facial expressions, that meant nothing to anyone else; it was their own secret code.

"Will you two bloody _speak_ if you're going to go through with this suicidal plan?" Narcissa fumed. She tipped the remainder of the spiced whiskey down her throat, then topped off her glass again. "You'll need more than just Theo if you're going to pull this off successfully."

"I know," said Draco.

Theo eyed Greg and Vince on either side of him – Draco nodded mutely – then arched a dark eyebrow pointedly at the wall of corridor Hermione hid behind. She panicked, struggling to steady her heartbeat.

"No," replied Draco aloud, earning a narrowed glare from Narcissa. He sighed, catching her expression, then added, "He wants Potter to go with them."

"Oh, _fuck_ no," grunted Narcissa.

Draco lips stretched into a sly grin; he chuckled under his breath at his mother's reaction. Theo, meanwhile, rolled his eyes and held up his palms defensively. "Relax," he announced. "I was actually referring to the entire New Order, not just Potter."

This earned a severe reaction from Narcissa, which prompted Draco to bite down on his bottom lip to refrain from outright laughing. Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth to stop any noise from giving away her eavesdropping.

"Well, why not?" Theo pressed, crossing his arms over his lean chest. A stray ebony hair – curled because he hadn't applied enough styling gel – fell onto his forehead. "You said you wanted more men, and they have more than enough men."

"Not the men I want," countered Draco, pausing to inhale a puff of smoke before going on. "I need men I can trust for this." He waited for Theo to argue this point. He didn't. Draco nodded, pleased, then sniffed, "Besides, you and I both know they wouldn't agree to this anyway."

"Fucking democrats," muttered Narcissa from the sidelines, sipping idly at her whiskey. "Voting on every bloody decision," she shook her head. "It's a wonder they get anything done."

Theo huffed, "Fine. Then who else?" He stared at Draco for a long while, both of them communicating in code again. "We'll need a fourth man just to keep an eye out if you want to do this as discreetly as you say."

Draco nodded. He exchanged a few glances with Narcissa, leaning in to whisper something Hermione couldn't catch. She tried to read lips and barely made out _Montague_ but nothing else. She cursed under her breath, desperate to know what she missed. Luckily, Greg chose that moment to chime in.

"Graham can't come, he's busy running the schools and training Malcolm to take over the tracks." Greg said, shuffling uncomfortably under the glare he earned from Narcissa. Though, Draco and Theo's heads snapped up at Greg's commentary. He gripped his newsboy cap in his grubby hands and tried to decipher their facial expressions. "What?" He finally asked, blinking between them. "What did I say?"

"Malcolm," breathed Theo. A small, sly grin broke out across his face. "Why didn't we think of that? He's old enough now to get his hands dirty, isn't he?"

"No." Draco corrected, holding a hand up and pointing back and forth Greg, Vince and Theo. "I swore to Marcus that I would keep his little brother out of this shit. He can come as look-out but under _no circumstances_ does he risk taking a bullet. Understood?" All three men facing Draco nodded, and they all breathed a sigh of relief.

Narcissa pursed her lips, muttering, "That little shit,"

_Malcolm_, Hermione pondered. She couldn't recall ever meeting the young Flint, though if Draco was serious about keeping Marcus' brother out of Death Eater business, then she supposed that was why. Hopefully nothing would happen to him, but from the uneasiness sculpted into their shoulders, she couldn't help but fret.

"This is going to backfire on us, Draco," warned Narcissa with a disapproving glare.

"It's alright," he assured her. Draco dubbed out the remainder of his cigarette in a nearby crystal ashtray and regarded her confidently. "I've taken extra measures to ensure everyone's safety should this go awry. From now on, there will be plenty of new faces around the Manor to secure our numbers. At least, until the danger passes,"

Narcissa scoffed. "Until the danger passes," she repeated. "That'll be the bloody day."

It looked as though the group were about to disperse, and although Hermione knew Draco wouldn't tell her the contents of their conversation – especially if he wouldn't trust Harry with it – she still wanted to test him. Their relationship was icy and rocky, but every now and then she caught flashes of the old Draco she loved.

Perhaps, this would be one of those times.

"What is going on? What happened?" She asked, stepping into the foyer. When no one answered, nor spared her the tired look like they usually gave her when their conversation didn't concern her, Hermione grew irate. She cleared her throat and crossed her arms. "What the fuck happened?"

"An opportunity has arisen," Draco told her without shifting his gaze away from Theo. "Let's go," he added, gripping her arm and tugging her out the front door without another word.

* * *

Buckingham Palace was as elegant and haunting as Hermione remembered it to be; the guests dressed their finest fabrics and their coldest smiles. The chandeliers showered the spacious rooms in a golden glow, and every woman dancing beneath them twirled and dipped, letting their necks sparkle and shine. Hermione liked to play a little game with herself – mostly because she loathed talking to anyone else, especially her date – where she tried to estimate the cost of the jewels on the posh women. Generally, she used her own diamonds for reference, which was only _slightly_ upsetting.

Amidst analyzing the massive rocks dangling from a baroness' ears, a cough from behind interrupted her train of thought. Turning to address the guest vying for her attention, Hermione plastered a sickly-sweet smile across her rouge lips.

"My, my," the man tutted. "Do you greet everyone with that pained grin, or did you reserve it just for me?" The flirtatious tone took Hermione by surprise, and she nearly lost her footing upon offering her hand for him to kiss. When he did, his blue eyes struck her, and his lips lingered too long on her knuckles to be considered strictly polite. "You must be Miss Granger," he trilled, looking especially proud of himself.

Hermione arched a pointed brow.

The Malfoys were already considered high society long before Draco became eligible for lordship, but when he did announce his intended change in status – as well as his aspiration to run for parliament – the Malfoys entered the bourgeoisie. The past few months, Hermione stood respectively on Draco's arm in all of his societal events. Typically, she didn't bother conversing with anyone she didn't already know which, unfortunately for her, were genuinely unintelligent people.

Mr. Bagman – soon to be Lord Bagman – and Mr. Lockhart – who wouldn't become a lord anytime soon – were generally her conversational companions.

This man before her, however, did not appear to be on the same level as any of the others at these events. While he did sport an exquisite three-piece suit, it clung to him unlike anything she'd seen before (except, of course, on Draco). It was intriguing, at the very least. Hermione could not lie to herself and pretend as though he wasn't dangerously attractive, either.

From the way he leaned casually against the banister to the way her name dripped from his crooked lips, she was entranced.

Suddenly, a thought popped into her head.

"You must be Lord Riddle."

"Please," he said. His ocean blue eyes glinted, sending shivers up her spine. "Call me Tom."

"Tom," she repeated, tasting the name on her tongue. It was sour, yet sweet. "I apologize for missing our meeting the other week," she said. "I wasn't feeling well." A lie. Hermione had felt perfectly well, but Draco insisted she not accompany Narcissa to the meeting, and now she knew why. Draco must be threatened by this beautiful, powerful man.

"A terrible shame," he replied. "I was so looking forward to meeting the woman who continues to confound the British public." His mouth quirked upwards into a smirk, and Hermione swallowed. He was bold. "Tell me, Miss Granger," – "Hermione," she cut in – "Hermione," he corrected, daring to wink at her. "Tell me," he repeated, "How does it feel to be the most envied woman in all of London? I imagine it can be rather lonely," he added.

Hermione followed his blue gaze across the crowded room to where Draco's silvery hair glowed beneath the lights. She coughed to cover the brashness of the accusation and tried to play it cool. "Oh, no," she insisted. "It's not lonely so long as I have Draco."

"And do you," Tom pressed, "have Draco?"

"Why would you say that?" Hermione countered, careful to keep her pitch at an appropriate level.

Tom lifted his ebony eyebrows, and Hermione's eyes caught on the dark curls styled perfectly atop his head. "I am very adept at reading people, Hermione," he informed her calmly. Tom paused, then added under his breath, "Except for you."

Tom gestured for them to take a turn about the room, and Hermione followed behind him after a moment of hesitation. An icy sensation crept its way into her senses, alerting her that Tom was a dangerous man. Then again, Hermione mused internally, catching a silver glint across the room, she was all too familiar with dangerous men. Did she dare engage in another one's games?

One swift glance at the deep blue of Tom's eyes answered her question.

_Yes. _

_Yes, she did dare._

"So," said Hermione. "What brings you this this illustrious event? You look like the sort of man to have more important places to be." At that, Tom smirked down at her. Walking next to him, Hermione realized just how _tall_ he was; he towered above her similarly to Draco and Theo, but the way he held his head high gave the illusion that he was taller than either of them.

Tom paused to let Hermione through the doorway first. They finished circling the room and exited into the hallway outside. The rich, garnet carpet overlaid across the dark wood reminded Hermione of Malfoy Manor. There were paintings, portraits, and various priceless artefacts decorating the space as well. Though, from the interwoven letters of K and G, along with much more gold throughout the décor, it was clear they were in Buckingham Palace, not Malfoy Manor.

She surveyed the way Tom pretended to study the advanced landscape of a Rubens painting when it was clear his eyes were focused elsewhere. Conscious of the satin shaping her curves, Hermione fought to keep her posture and breathing under control.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Tom asked, prompting Hermione to avert her gaze from his chiseled jaw to the painting before them. "The way the Virgin reaches for the heavens; likening her assumption to the first glimpse of the bright and burning sun after a dark and debilitating eclipse," he mused. His clear blue eyes settled on Hermione, whose cheeks were beginning to flush under his gaze. "Do you see the inclusion of Saints Mary and Martha?" Tom gestured artfully toward two of the figures crowding under the rising woman. "What do you make of their presence?"

Hermione understood immediately what Tom meant by his question. He knew _precisely_ what the presence of the two saints represented, and why they were a key contribution into comprehending the message of Rubens work. She, of course, was hardly uneducated.

"_The Assumption of the Virgin_," she stated, nodding to the golden plaque beneath the impressive painting. "The original fable tells of the Virgin being carried up to the heavens, body and soul. The apostles brought by angels to her death bed to assist in her burial," Hermione paused. "The sisters, Saints Mary and Martha, however, are not from the original tale. Their presence is an added signature of Rubens; his take on the fable."

"Hm," breathed Tom encouragingly.

Licking her lips, Hermione went on. "They symbolize an active life, full of prayer and good fortune."

"The metaphor, the heavenly glory of the Virgin as the sun, is brilliant." Tom exhaled. A small smile stretched across his lips, and Hermione found herself imagining if they would taste as sour and sweet as his name. Tom glanced down at her, a smirk evident behind his eyes. "It reminds me of someone," he added elusively.

Hermione fought against every fiber in her body not to flush.

She cleared her throat softly and gestured back toward the main ballroom. "We should make our way back, don't you think?"

Tom stared unblinkingly at her. For half a breath, Hermione wondered if he would be bold enough to disagree. Would he dare to contradict her and whisk her away to study more Baroque paintings, and, perhaps, each other? Hermione blinked, reigning her thoughts to more appropriate ones.

"Yes," he eventually agreed. He offered her his hand, which she took without hesitation. His warmth surprised her; for someone with such cold, piercing eyes, his arm was comforting and inviting. Tom lead her swiftly through the hallway, back towards the main entertainment space. "We wouldn't want your precious Mr. Malfoy to notice your disappearance,"

_Nor who I disappeared with_, she sighed internally.

Summoning the devil himself, Draco stood tall and defiant under the impressive arch when they turned the corner into the ballroom. He said nothing at first, and Hermione knew his silence was far worse than his biting words. She disentangled herself from Tom and crossed the stiff air between the two men to stand beside Draco. Hermione inhaled and exhaled painfully.

"Lord Riddle," drawled Draco with a sinister smile. "What a pleasure to see you again." He, however, didn't sound pleased at all. "Thank you ever so much for keeping my angelic date company," added Draco. The reference to angels, however intentional (or unintentional), struck Hermione as more than simple coincidence. Fearing Draco's capability to have eyes and ears everywhere, she glanced nervously at Tom to see how he would handle the veiled threat that followed. "I trust," said Draco icily, "Lord Riddle, you and Miss Granger and got along quite well?"

"Swimmingly," taunted Tom.

Hermione's eyes bulged, taken aback by the pure lip.

Bold, ambitious, and _dangerous_. If Hermione wasn't careful, she would find herself in a dearly perilous predicament. Tom's irresistibility was increasing every second. His ability to remain calm and unafraid against Draco was extraordinary, and she could not help but compare the two men.

Draco stood tense with his jaw locked shut, while Tom flashed a quick grin at them before excusing himself to find a good seat. The moment the other man left them alone, Draco whipped around to face Hermione. She arched her dark eyebrows and dared him to cause a scene in front of the influential – highly attentive – bourgeoise.

He inhaled sharply, closed his eyes, and then snapped them open, blowing hot air out of his nose.

"Don't," he hissed, "give Rita another fucking reason to suspect our relationship."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, "What bloody relationship, Draco? Hm?" She hissed, "This is a fucking _joke_, and unless you plan on actually giving a damn about me, or even _trying_ to, don't you dare fucking lecture me about this mess you've gotten us into. If you don't give me a reason to stay – which working for your company is _not_ – then don't be shocked when I leave."

She pushed passed him, clipping his elbow, emboldened enough by Tom's bravery to find some of her own.

Draco caught her arm, pulling her back to him and fitting her waist between his iron grip. His grey, stormy eyes trailed across her face momentarily before he dipped his head to whisper in her ear. His deep tone sent shivers up her spine. "You think," he murmured, lips brushing against her cold ears. Hermione bit her lip, "that I don't care about you?"

"You have a funny way of showing it if you do," she retorted under her breath. Hermione embraced him for the sake of their onlookers before breaking away and sauntering off toward the other women waiting for their men to receive their new titles.

* * *

Later that evening, back at the Manor, Hermione was sitting with a novel and trying to tone out Pansy and Harry's bickering. Winky came through the door with a gleaming silver tray of tea with Dobby quick on her heels with another tray piled high with biscuits. Hermione blindly put the book atop the others she brought in from her bedroom and crossed the sitting room for a cup of tea. Daphne, head bent over a sketch pad – still denying any pursuit in fashion despite her constantly drawing – clipped the end of the pile of books and sent them toppling to the floor.

"Oh," she gasped, her golden ringlets falling loose from her bun as her head snapped up.

"It's alright," assured Hermione, returning to her favorite armchair by the hearth. She waved away Daphne's attempts to help and cradled the books to her chest, settling them back on the side table one by one.

"You missed something," said Harry, appearing at her side with a handful of chocolate biscuits and piping cup of tea of his own. Since his hands were full, he pointed to a corner of the rug with his eyes.

Following his line of sight, Hermione plucked a postcard from the floor. She frowned. Hermione had never seen this note before, and she had not noticed it among her novels, though she supposed it could not have come from anywhere else. When she flipped over the unfamiliar mountainous range and read the other side, Hermione dropped the card as if it was on fire.

"What is it?" Harry pressed, making himself comfortable in the armchair beside hers. "Is it from your parents?" He asked.

"No, no," she replied. "It's not them."

Her parents were still well and enjoying an early retirement in Australia as far as she knew. Harry, of course, was one of the few in the Manor to actually want to talk to her about her real life so, he knew all about them. Not having parents of his own, Hermione believed, led him to become overly invested in everyone else's (except Narcissa). The others didn't ask Hermione about her life before she became Penny. To them, it was better to pretend it didn't exist, and that Hermione Granger had begun as Penny Clearwater had ended.

"Then, what is it?" Harry asked again, propping his round glasses further up his nose imploringly.

Hermione blinked and read the note again. _Obliviate_. That could be from no one else but Neville bloody Longbottom. "It's nothing," she supplied. "Leave it alone," Hermione snapped as an afterthought, knowing how adamant Harry was about getting to the bottom of things. She shot him an exasperated glare, shooing him away and tucking the note in _Anna Karenina_ before placing it neatly atop the pile.

"Fucking hell," groaned Graham, entering the room and immediately hanging his suit jacket up on the coat hanger. Like all of the other Death Eater men, a gun strap clung to his back and draped in front of his suit vest. "It's been a long bloody week, I'll tell you that," he complained, procuring a cup of tea, several plain biscuits, and collapsing on the loveseat between Daphne and Pansy.

"Oh, your poor thing," crooned Pansy. "Do you want Daph and I to give you a proper massage?" As she asked this, her pale hands wound themselves around his neck, and her thumb applied a bit of pressure to his trapezius muscles. "How's that?"

Graham blinked, frowning.

"Pans," he began, "Are you – are you serious right now? That would be bloody lovely – Fuck, you have no idea how stressful it's been at the orphanage – _Ouch!_"

Just as Graham had foolishly gotten comfortable, seemingly believing better of Pansy's intentions, she dug her thumbs into the back of his neck and shoved him onto the floor. Graham tumbled and gracefully popped himself up without spilling any of his tea. He scowled.

"What the actual _fuck?_"

Pansy shrugged, stretching her legs across Daphne's lap in Graham's absence. "Next time," she said with a sly smirk, "Find somewhere else to fucking sit." Daphne laughed aloud and caressed Pansy's leg affectionately.

Graham, thoroughly offended and embarrassed, ordered Dobby to fetch a bottle of whisky. He poured enough of the spiced liquor into his teacup that, even from across the room, Hermione's nose wrinkled at the scent. She was still adjusting to being sober, but constantly reminded herself it was worth it; it would pay off.

Hermione was thinking more clearly, and seeing everything in technicolor, which would only prove to be advantageous in the long run.

The three others began slowly altering their contents in their teacups from English breakfast to spiced Firewhiskey. Graham, draped across a sofa facing the two women, went on complaining about his hellish week. Apparently, as his loud outbursts were difficult to ignore, Graham had been suffering on all ends, not just in work. His wife, Marietta, was constantly pestering him to help around the house and watch their children more (which Hermione thought was fair enough, though she didn't voice her opinion). Daphne and Pansy scolded him for leaving Marietta to all of the domestic work, leaving Graham even more irritated with them.

"You're not even going to _pretend_ to take my side in this?" He gaped.

Pansy and Daphne exchanged a curious expression, then snickered. "No," they replied in unison. "Why would we?" Daphne added as well. "I still don't see why you don't bring her around here." She went on. "It's not like Marietta is _that_ dull. She must have some idea as to what you do for a living, and how legal it is. Or illegal, for that matter." Daphne cocked a golden brow accusingly. "Besides, Narcissa may despise sharing the Manor with her and your three cretins - "

"Four now," Graham corrected.

Pansy nearly choked on a laugh, earning daggers from him.

"What I'm trying to _say_," continued Daphne with an exasperated sigh, "is that they would certainly be welcome to live here. I've heard Kreacher can be a wonderful nanny too," she said matter-of-factly.

"Please," snorted Graham. "I don't want my heathens to end up like _Draco_."

"There could be worse outcomes, Montague," came a new voice. Draco strutted through the entryway, whispering something in Winky's ear as he passed her. A few moments later, she returned with a new teapot and teacup, pouring him one and receiving a rare appreciative smile from Draco. She beamed, then scampered away (probably to brag to Dobby or Kreacher). "Where are all of the chocolate biscuits?"

"_Lord Malfoy_ demands his chocolate biscuits," sneered Pansy under her breath. "Where art thou chocolate biscuits!?" She cried theatrically. Hermione bit down on her inner cheek to refrain from laughing at the mockery of his newly acquired title. D-Day had arrived, and Pansy was not one to waste a perfectly executed ridicule.

Draco flipped her the bird, then frowned at the plain, caramel, and honey biscuits left on the silver tray.

As his hardened gaze scanned everyone in the room, starting with Pansy, Harry's jewel-toned eyes slid guiltily across to Hermione. She stifled a giggle as he stuffed the remainder of the chocolate biscuits he swiped in his mouth and forced them down just in time to plead innocent as Draco's grey eyes fell on him. They narrowed slightly, then moved on to Hermione.

She stilled, catching a shift in his dark grey hue. His eyes lit up silver for a brief moment before he cleared his throat and leaned artfully against the hearth. Hermione was reminded of how strikingly attractive Draco was – with his translucent hair gleaming in the poor lighting and his figure filling out his pinstripe suit expertly – but scolded herself.

Hermione swore to herself the ball was in his court, and that it would remain firmly in his court unless he decided to do anything about it. If he was even serious about caring for her.

Harry leaned toward her, diverting her attention. The two of them, somewhat separate from the others in the room, talked about their work. Hermione didn't have much to say other than how much paperwork there was. Luckily, this time, she wasn't technically chained to a desk by a pompous middle-aged man.

Conversely, Harry had quite a bit to talk about. He told Hermione about his most recent triumphs against Fudge. "He's been letting me lead investigations," he said, elbowing her playfully. "How long did it take you to get him to trust you like that?"

She shook her head, "You're a prat, Potter. You know bloody well he never trusted me to lead anything other than proofreading completed files before audits." She sighed, catching Draco's eye and continuing at a lower volume. "The only assignment Fudge entrusted me with was Malfoy's case, and that turned out to be a total setup."

Harry offered her a fleeting sorrowful look, then broke out into a cheery smile.

"Still," he said, shrugging. "Look where it put you and how far you've come from the old Hermione Granger."

Hermione grimaced at first, shaking off Harry's encouraging mini speech, but then his words sank in. She _was_ far advanced from the woman she used to be all those years ago. Badass, street smart, and overcoming every obstacle thrown her way, Hermione was a force to be reckoned with. However, her wonderful realization was quickly interrupted by shouts and screams flooding the room.

Theo was the first face to emerge through the door, followed by Greg and Vince holding up a leaner, younger man. Behind the ensemble, Narcissa marched into the room barking orders at everyone.

"What the fuck happened?" Draco demanded right away.

His grey eyes scanned the scene, analyzing every minute detail, then he shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The contents of the coffee table were quickly scattered across the oriental rug, which Hermione expected to hear Narcissa moan about. The entire household held their breath at the men lowered young Malcolm Flint onto the coffee table and blood trickled across her precious floor.

"Oh, fuck the rugs," she snapped, glaring at them.

Her clear eyes settled on the bullet wound in Malcolm's upper arm, and Hermione understood the wary glance she shot Draco after eavesdropping on their conversation this morning. Draco, though, didn't look mad. Instead, he looked remarkably calm if a little disappointed.

Malcolm whined and groaned as everyone fell into the routine of doctoring him.

Pansy and Daphne worked with Winky to provide clean, damp towels and take the bloodied ones away. Graham and Theo held Malcolm down, often murmuring jeers or reassurances in his ear. Narcissa paced the room, lighting a cigarette and ripping through it. Harry and Hermione stood by, waiting for any commands to be thrown their way. Greg and Vince left the room and came back with a medic kit and a fresh bottle of vodka.

Hermione swallowed.

"Theo," said Draco after a quick glance. "Give me your blade."

Theo took off his newsboy cap and split the seam effortlessly, then handed the embedded blade to Draco with a curt nod.

"Malcolm," grunted Draco, slapping the young man's cheek to get his attention. The dark eyes that reminded Hermione unhelpfully of whose younger brother this was, met Draco's steady gaze. "Mac," he said again, a bit softer, "You'll be fine. Listen to me," he half-shouted, "_Relax_."

"Have you ever done this before?" Malcolm questioned.

Draco's lips quirked upwards into a sly smirk. "Only a dozen times," he scoffed.

"And that was just on me," said Theo with a conspiratorial wink.

Malcolm choked on a laugh, which lasted only a second before his face contorted with pain again.

"Oi," added Theo. "Draco is the best man for this," he assured Malcolm. "You don't see any of us fighting to take his place, do you?" Malcolm glanced around, seemingly noticing everyone looking over him for the first time and nodded slowly.

Hermione noticed the slack expression across Draco's face and recognized it as genuine shock. Theo's words, perhaps, were deeper than he intended them to be. She caught the shared expression, as well as a wink from Theo, and imagined Theo knew exactly what he was saying.

"It'll be over before you know it," continued Theo, effectively distracting Malcolm. Draco was readying himself to slice into Malcolm's arm and extract the bullet, flashing a few hand movements at Theo to encourage him to go on. "One time," he laughed. "Draco took a bullet from between two ribs. One inch from the heart." He paused, then tilted his head devilishly. "Mind you, it was a horse, and the horse did die."

Malcolm choked on another laugh – Narcissa smacked Theo upside the head – but the story had done its job. Draco, as the ringleader and father figure for young Malcolm, wordlessly commanded Greg and Vince. All three of them worked miraculously well to repair the wound in Malcolm's upper arm and retrieve the bullet. Hermione winced, digging her nails into the back of Harry's hand as Malcolm groaned and screamed.

Finally, the metal clanged against an empty ashtray, and everyone let out a unanimous sigh of relief.

The room returned to its previous carefree air, with everyone drinking, eating, and chattering loudly. Hermione walked with Harry to where Theo and Draco stood by the fire. She only partly listened to them. Instead, eager to avoid Draco's presence nearby, she strained her ears to listen to where Narcissa grilled Malcolm. He pressed a dry towel against his arm as Daphne arranged the sewing kit beside him.

"What the fuck has Draco told you, hm?" Narcissa hissed. "Children stay out of the gunfire. _Especially_ a bloody Flint!"

"I'm not a child!" He countered, grimacing. "I'm fucking eighteen years old, Mrs. Malfoy," – "Narcissa," she corrected impatiently – "I have to maintain my reputation."

Narcissa slapped him across the cheek.

"Hey," she snapped. "Grow up, Malcolm. Your brother didn't take a bullet for his fucking _reputation_. He didn't _die _for that, and certainly didn't fucking want _you_ to have the kind of life he had. You hear me? Soon, Draco will be in a higher position of power. We have money. There is no bloody need for you to go risking your young, _precious_ life for a fucking reputation." Narcissa seethed, fixing a killer glare at the young man.

In the moment of silence between them that followed, Daphne took the opportunity to instruct Malcolm into a better position for her to sew the wound shut.

"You are a fucking idiot, Malcolm," exhaled Narcissa. She shook her head and paced the length of the sofa he stretched across. Daphne knelt at his side, concentrating intently on her work. "Three inches to the left and that precious bloody life would be gone." She stormed off toward Pansy, passing Hermione and muttering under her breath, "Bloody hell."

Daphne cleared her throat, then leaned in close to the young Flint.

"You have got nothing to prove, Mac," she assured him. "Nothing."

* * *

The next morning was the same as every Saturday for the past three weeks. Hermione stretched her limbs across the silk sheets and waded in the warm bath Winky set for her. Then, she dressed in Narcissa-approved suits; today, she opted for a peplum-style grey pinstripe that was insanely flattering on her waistline. Finally, after attempting to tame her wild curls into a passable chignon, Hermione would find her way to the dining room for a quick cup of tea and breakfast.

Narcissa, whom which Draco clearly inherited his timeliness from, strode through one archway with a stoic expression and said nothing as she selected an apple and passed through the other archway into the next hallway. Hermione took this as a sign that the meeting was about to begin, as Narcissa was never tardy, and hurried to swallow her buttered toast before following the other woman.

Hermione navigated the maze of the Manor easily and emerged in a large meeting room on the third floor. She took a seat across from Narcissa on the long cherry wood table; seconds later, Draco entered the room and took the seat at the head of the table, squarely between Hermione and Narcissa. Even though the two women now ran his company, it was still… well, _his_.

Draco oversaw everything, despite legally stepping back from running it for the sake of preparing for his new role in the House of Lords.

"So," he began, "Let's get started."

It was a standard, and, in fact, slightly boring conference. Hermione chimed in when necessary, but for the most part Narcissa and Draco did the talking. Blaise, who had just arrived back at the Manor that morning from his business in Birmingham, spent the better part of an hour going over numbers for various funds the company backed. Evidently, Draco's company was incredibly generous toward the poor and disabled community.

"We're still in the green as far as this quarter goes," commented Blaise with a flick of his pen. He circled several large sums before passing a piece of paper to Draco. "I would say we should be a bit more careful with investing in international property and trades next quarter. They can be unpredictable, but an old friend of mine in America says their stock market would be a gold mine should we ever consider investing in some of its companies."

Draco grunted softly, then tossed the paper past Hermione to the woman sitting on her left, his company's solicitor. She surveyed the numbers skeptically, but then nodded furiously. "Excellent. These figures will be marvelous for your future campaign to join parliament. The people love someone in power who gives back to them, and you, Lord Malfoy, have done just that since the company first transferred to your hands." She took one last glance at the paper – probably memorizing the figures – then handed it back to Blaise. "Clean."

Blaise nodded appreciatively.

Madam Hooch – the first doctor Hermione met who did _not_ want to go by her formal title – was a shrewd woman. Her eyes, gold flecked and acute like a bird, did not miss a single bloody thing. Which meant, more than anything else, that these meetings regarding the future and wellbeing of Malfoy Company Limited were all above board.

It also meant that there was always a second meeting directly after the first.

At the end of the very tiresome conference, Madam Hooch approached Draco regarding the potential backlash of the number of women outweighing the number of men on his executive board. Hermione took the opportunity to flee the room. She descended the stairs nearly two at a time and didn't exhale a single, solid breath until she collapsed against the tan leather seats of Narcissa's beloved Bugatti.

Half an hour later, she and Narcissa arrived at the Cavalier and waited outside for the others. However, Theo poked his head out and waved them in. "Already moved the peasants out of the main space," he told them. "We're all here. Only waiting on Draco."

"It's not like him to be late," muttered Narcissa with a glance back at the car. Draco insisted on them going on ahead of him. Neither had questioned it, but now it seemed silly that they hadn't.

Inside Theo's posh pub, every single chair, booth and table remained empty (though littered with glasses) except for one. In the corner, sitting comfortably around one of the enormous booths, were the main members of the second meeting. Hermione slid into the end of one side, grinning at Theo beside her. Next to him was Graham and Blaise. Narcissa selected two chairs, polished them with a rag from behind the bar. She sat in one, propped her legs up on the other, and lit a cigarette before tossing the pack to Theo.

Astoria was typically present at these family meetings and was the entire reason – aside from Hermione's newly acquired status as COO of Malfoy Company Limited – that Hermione was even allowed to attend them. Hermione had never actually attended a meeting _with_ Astoria since she had been away for months, but it was still strange not having her around. It certainly made Hermione discover her self-confidence without the other woman behind her to remind her it was there.

Lost in thought of her best mate, Hermione almost missed Draco appearing beside her and nudging her further into the booth so that he could sit on the end. She moved, dazed, before she even realized what she was doing. His palm flattened against his perfectly tailored trousers, and his pinky brushed up against her thigh.

Hermione inhaled sharply.

Draco's lips quirked upwards into a ghost of a smile, then he motioned for the family meeting to begin.

"Can I begin this family meeting with a proposal?" Narcissa said, obviously not asking for permission. To prove her point, she went on. "I say from now on we find somewhere else to meet." Her pale eyes narrowed at the sticky table between them, and Hermione smirked in agreeance.

"No offense, right?" Theo pressed, relaxing back against the leather upholstery of the booth.

Narcissa lifted her eyebrows as if to respond with _What do you think, Nott?_ and his shoulders shook as he laughed. "Fuck off," he muttered under his breath, smiling through the quip. In return, Narcissa smirked and tipped an imaginary hat to him.

"It's your son's idea anyway," stated Theo. He reached behind Hermione to clap Draco on the back. "He thinks it's a _brilliant _idea to be seen mingling with the common folk."

"It's good for politics," supplied Draco with an exasperated sigh.

Most likely, Hermione pondered, it was actually Madam Hooch's brilliant idea. "Well," she scoffed without thinking. "If this is your campaign for socialism, Draco, perhaps next time you won't wear a suit worth more than Theo's pub."

"Oi," snapped Theo in a knee-jerk reaction. Narcissa's smirk grew wider, Graham whistled lowly as he tipped his drink to the back of his throat, and Draco's grey eyes darkened infinitesimally. Hermione blinked. For a second, she was perplexed and wondered if there was any point in attempting to apologize for her outburst, but then she simply shrugged; her expression stoic.

She wasn't wrong.

"Right," said Narcissa, speaking up in the absence of Draco's leadership. "First item on the list is this," she placed a small, flattened bullet on the center of the table. "Cut out from Malcolm Flint's arm yesterday." Her eyes scanned the booth. "What happened? What the fuck went wrong?"

Hermione's ears pricked. This must have something to do with the favor she overheard them plotting the other morning, which was precisely what she predicted when Malcolm was bleeding out over Narcissa's carpet last night.

Draco shook his head. "No." He plucked the bullet, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, then met his mother's eyes. "Not in front of her."

The obvious _her_ in question was Hermione.

"And why the fuck not?" She argued.

"Because," countered Draco. He chose then to avoid eye contact with her, driving Hermione's temper up the wall. "This is a family meeting. This issue concerns family, of which you are not."

Hermione inhaled sharply, "And whose fault is that, _hm?_" Draco continued to avoid her glare. She searched the faces of the others and noticed none of them seemed openly offended by her presence among them. "If you weren't ready to fucking trust me with anything, then why the hell am I working for you, Draco? Why the fuck am I _here?_"

He hesitated, then murmured, "I didn't want you in these meetings, remember?"

She fumed. "I knew it," she hissed, wishing she was in the position to storm out of the bloody pub. "I knew you weren't fucking serious yesterday." When she did shift to move, expecting him to gladly step aside for her to exit, however, Draco didn't budge. Instead, he curled his hands into a fist around the bullet and finally met her brown eyes.

"Fine," he said calmly. "Fine."

Then, miraculously, he carried on with Narcissa's first topic of discussion as if he hadn't just thrown a minor tantrum about her presence at the family meeting. Fucking _men_, she mused internally.

"I thought you said Flint wouldn't get hurt," reminded Narcissa with an icy glare. "I thought you said he would stay out of trouble."

Theo groaned simultaneously with Draco, then spoke up. "He was _supposed_ to stay out of trouble. I had a firm talking to him, but of course the bloody git didn't listen." He shook his head, adding under his breath, "I wonder where he bloody gets that from."

Draco held up a hand to stop his mother from replying with a smartass quip. "I told Malcolm to stay out of it, that he was only to be lookout. Obviously, he didn't listen." Draco's grey eyes darkened. "I hoped he would be ready to groom into the Death Eaters, but clearly that's not going to happen. He's not ready."

"Not ready?" Narcissa scoffed, exhaling a cloud of smoke between herself and her son. "He claims to have shot at least two men. Both with much better aim than the one who shot him. I think he's plenty fucking ready," snapped Narcissa. "It's just a matter of trusting he won't go and get himself bloody killed with his big mouth the next time you get called for a favor."

"A favor?" Repeated Blaise with arched ebony brows. "What kind of a favor?"

Theo and Draco exchanged glances; their eyebrows furrowed, jaws clenched, and Hermione found it hard not to notice Narcissa's particularly smug expression over their uncomfortable expressions. With the mention of two deaths already, it was difficult to believe the favor was not gang affiliated.

"There was a man in Camden," began Draco between inhales of smoke. During a long pause, Blaise sat up and paid closer attention to the uneasy glances shared between Draco, Narcissa and Theo (clearly the only ones among them completely in the know). "I was called for a favor. In order to secure my position of power, once I joined the House, then I had to uphold some of my old promises to the nation. Namely," exhaled Draco, "the promises I made to rid the city of its vermin."

Blaise and Graham blinked.

Hermione succumbed to another outburst in the wake of Blaise's silence and called out, "Someone's called you to dispose of IRA members lurking about the city?" Her brows furrowed. "I don't recall hearing about them returning."

"Not the IRA," said Theo, chewing his lip. "Not this time, anyway."

Theo looked expectantly at Draco who, after a beat of hesitation, finished his whiskey and announced, "A senior member of the House of Lords asked that I… dispose… of a man in Camden because of his ties to the communist party."

Graham, Blaise, and Hermione, in unison, shrieked, "_What?_"

"It was a specific opportunity," mused Narcissa.

"Listen," started Draco with a hardened gaze at the others. "It was supposed to be an easy target, nonetheless, and should have resulted in a swift, clean result."

"It would have been bloody easy if Malcolm hadn't shouted about killing the fucking man from the top of his lungs the minute that we entered the building." Sniped Theo. A deep frown turned his lips upside down, and his pale skin flushed slightly with well-tamed anger. "Half of the bloody communist party was on us before we reached the top floor. It's honestly a bloody miracle we made it out with as little injuries as we did," he muttered.

Graham shook his head disapprovingly, meeting Draco's grey eyes. "That boy needs educating, Draco, for fuck's sake."

Draco dabbed the last half of his cigarette out. "It was a specific opportunity that would be impossible to refuse. It was delivered to me in confidence. It was a favor from a senior member in parliament, later sanctioned by a high-ranking judge _and_ the Scotland Yard. This senior member knows of my connection to the Death Eaters, unfortunately, and used it to get what he wanted. My hands were tied."

Hermione gaped, dumbfounded. "Someone in the House of Lords knows you are the leader of the bloody Death Eaters?" Draco nodded his assent, and Theo hung his head. "He _knows_ you are the leader of a _gang_?" She emphasized. Once again, Draco nodded. Hermione took a moment to process this, and as she did so, Graham spoke up.

"So, either way, you're fucked." He said. "You do his favor, and possibly any others in the future, or he releases that information to the press." Graham shook his head, tapping his fingers against the hard wood of the table. "_Or_," he continued. "You don't do his favor, and possibly any others in the futures, and he _still_ releases that information to the press."

To that, Draco and Theo both nodded. They replied simultaneously with, "Correct."

"Bloody hell," whistled Blaise.

Narcissa's smug expression had dropped a while back, and now she sat with her arms crossed and lips pursed. A stream of grey smoke rose to the ceiling of the pub from the cigarette abandoned between her fingers. "Fucking idiots," she mumbled.

"Well, fuck," said Hermione. "What can we do about that?"

"Precisely," agreed Draco without glancing her way. He fiddled with the rim of his glass. "Precisely."

There was a hushed conversation among everyone in the family meeting. Blaise and Graham chattered nervously about the predicament this now placed not only Draco in, but also the other members of the Death Eaters. Their anonymity in London afforded them the luxury to continue with their careers, and inclusion in the social elite, as if their allegiance to the Death Eaters – the very existence of the gang, as well – didn't exist. Narcissa and Theo, meanwhile, complained about Malcolm and how they were going to possibly steer the young Flint into a mindset of higher intelligence, and soon.

Hermione, amongst the whispers, turned her head toward Draco.

"Who is it?"

He didn't turn his head, nor did he blink or give any indication as to having heard her. Knowing that he did, though, Hermione didn't let up. She inclined her head more to obscure the rest of the table from his vision. Now, he had no choice but to look at her.

"Are you going to tell me or not?" She pressed.

Draco sighed, "You already know who it is."

* * *

It was a wonderful autumn's day for a picnic. The fact that it was a Tuesday had thrown Hermione off a bit at first, especially when everyone cleared their schedules to attend – children and all – but she accepted it as another strange celebration of the Malfoys and brushed it off. The air was crisp and clean; the lawns of Hyde Park were scattered with falling leaves.

"Here go!"

Hermione took the proffered orange leaf from the toddler with a smile and laughed as he ran off to retrieve another one. She added it to the pile beside her with her free hand, cradling the newborn closer to her chest with the other one as a strong wind chilled their faces.

"Here," said Marietta. "Take this." She tucked Hermione into a plush, wool blanket and grinned as her newborn son cooed in Hermione's arms.

"He's beautiful," she breathed.

"Thank you," replied Marietta. "He's the most well-behaved of all of them," she admitted, adding, "so far, at least," with a shake of her head. On cue, her second youngest returned with another gift for Hermione. This time, though, Marietta took the leaf and set it down. She stood and scooped up the child, swinging him about before directing him toward Graham. "Go tackle Daddy!"

The young boy, who probably didn't need much encouragement – or any from what Graham told them – charged toward his father as fast as his tiny legs could carry him.

"He's the spitting image of Graham," confessed Hermione with a shy smile.

"So are the others," mused Marietta. She sighed, glancing away from Graham and her other three children to the one fast asleep in Hermione's arms. "I hope this one turns out more like me." She sighed. "I love them all to death, I really do, but it's not fair how strong his genes are."

Hermione laughed, "I know what you mean." The other children, all boys, were just like Graham; they lived to tease, to play, had brown curls, and would one day serve the Death Eaters. Hermione hated bringing this up, of course, and quickly changed the topic of conversation away from Marietta's family. "So," she chirped. "What do you think of Vince's new bird?"

"You know," replied Marietta, tilting her head. "I never thought Vince would settle down. I never pictured him getting married or having kids, none of that."

"He still might not do any of that." Hermione pointed out. "They're only dating."

"That's true," she agreed. "I can't say I'm thrilled the one woman he _did_ end up dating is a member of the New Order, but then again, if he's happy, I'm happy. He deserves it."

Which, Hermione could not agree more. If anyone deserved to be foolishly happy in love, it was Vince. He'd been through the ringer the past few years and never had anyone other than Greg to share his burdens with. All of the lads were close, it wasn't like Greg as _all_ Vince had, but he was certainly the closest to him. Now, luckily, Emmeline had entered his life and completely turned it upside down.

"What do you think of the New Order?" Marietta pressed, eying Hermione skeptically. She clenched her jaw, aware that Marietta and Millie, Greg's wife, disapproved deeply of her close relationship to Harry. It was unfair, she thought, since he was quite literally the only bloody member she tolerated.

Saved from providing an answer, Hermione's name was screamed across the expansive lawns, causing several heads of the outing to turn. Expecting to be called for a private word, Hermione handed the newborn boy back to Marietta reluctantly. She would never admit it aloud, but she looked forward to seeing Marietta for that one reason. Holding her newborn son reminded Hermione of the one she was supposed to have, and despite how despairing that sounded, it was surprisingly nice to sit with him.

"Hurry back," said Marietta as Hermione stood to leave. "He sleeps soundly when you cradle him."

Though, perhaps, Marietta already knew this.

"Hermione!"

All of the earlier calls for her name had been somewhat muted by the howling wind and distance. This shout, however, was very distinct – and unexpected.

"Astoria?" She replied, bewildered.

Sure enough, the petite brunette was bounding across Hyde Park toward Hermione; her sage green eyes lit up the moment Hermione recognized her voice. The two women collided somewhere in the middle of the picnic, and Theo's laughter was easily audible from where he stood at the bottom of the hill with Draco and Blaise (the only three not playing with the children).

"Astoria!"

Hermione bit back tears as she embraced her best friend. Her hold on the other woman was so tight she was sure Astoria's pale skin would bruise, but she didn't loosen her grip. It had been five _long_ fucking months since she'd been able to hug her. It had been just as long since Hermione had been able to talk to Astoria as well because she took off for god knows where for fuck knows how long. However, now that they were back together, Hermione found she couldn't find any words. Her tongue sat thick and useless in her mouth, and it took everything in her not to let the others see her cry or breakdown.

It was as if the past few months came crashing down on her in one insurmountable tidal wave of emotion.

The last time she'd seen Astoria was when she was still confined to her bedroom and subject to the whatever Draco decided was best for her. Not having Astoria to lean on in the dark months following the miscarriage, Hermione felt lost. No amount of alcohol could lift the clouds of sorrow that followed Hermione wherever she went.

In Astoria's absence, during a long and grueling summer, Hermione was forced to not only stand up for herself, but also find herself again and wake up from the nightmare that had become her life. It took until she looked in the mirror one morning and truly could not recognize herself.

Who was this strange woman staring back at her?

Who was this _coward?_

For no one – fucking _no one_ – would have imagined Hermione Granger would evolve into a sad, belittled woman. There was no denying she had suffered, but she was a fierce, strong, and _brave_ woman. No matter how many times life had kicked her down to the ground before, Hermione rose up every single time. She leaped, bounded, and soared above her adversities.

When confronted with the impossible task of infiltrating a notoriously corrupt gang, did she falter? Absolutely not. When threatened by men over and over and over again, in every sense of the word, did she back down? Fuck. No. When challenged with the most difficult decision of her life, did she lose sight of what felt right? Never.

So…

Will she allow that decision to haunt her and seal a perilous fate? Not if she had any say in it. Will she dismiss her intelligence, capabilities, and strength ever again? Over her dead body. Will she fall into the clutches of depression and let it swallow her whole? Not today, Satan. Not today.

In the past five months, since the last time she embraced or confided in Astoria, Hermione blossomed out of the dark and dangerous hole she found herself in; with every fiber in her being, she pushed back against her adversaries and _won._

Hermione felt anew, like a breath of fresh air after almost drowning.

She felt _alive_.

And through the most difficult turn back towards the light, a set of blazing blue eyes guided her – Tom's eyes.

"I have so much to tell you," she murmured in Astoria's ear before finally letting go.

Astoria pulled back slightly, enough to meet Hermione's eyes, and smirked. "I bet you do." With a quick step to her left, Astoria looped her hand in Hermione's and revealed a tall, slender man standing behind her. "It seems as though we both have a lot of catching up to do." She paused, pinching Hermione. "For now," she went on, "this is Oliver Wood."

"Hello," he greeted in a thick Scottish accent. "It's a pleasure, Miss Granger."

Hermione blinked, shocked. Realizing she hadn't spoken – and was embarrassingly gaping at the handsome Scot – she suddenly jerked into motion, following automated manners. "Hermione," she smiled, throwing her free hand out for the dashing man to kiss. He did so fleetingly, only enough to be polite, before resuming his position.

Oliver Wood stood tall, much taller than either Astoria or Hermione, but his charming smile and boyish brunette curls quickly portrayed him as a sweet lad. Unlike Draco – or Tom's – striking features that immediately flagged a woman's (not Hermione's, obviously) better sense, Oliver raised no easily discernable alarms.

"Astoria tells me you're quite the brains of the Death Eaters," he winked.

"Was," corrected Hermione with a sad, half-smirk.

Astoria frowned. Her dark eyebrows furrowed slightly, drawing attention to her pale green eyes. She elbowed Hermione roughly and scolded her. "Still am," she amended once more. Rolling her eyes, Astoria shifted to lean her head casually against Hermione's, then beamed at Oliver. "Told you she would say that, didn't I?"

"That you did, Greenie baby," chuckled Oliver with a devilish grin.

Hermione blinked, registering the flirtatious tone between them. She stepped away from Astoria, almost reluctantly but also reflexively, and sputtered incoherently. A finger pointed lazily in the air between Astoria and Oliver, but Astoria only pursed her lips and pushed Hermione away playfully.

"It's an inside joke, Hermione, relax," then when she thought Hermione wasn't looking, Astoria winked at Oliver. "Now," she said, regaining a proper tone she could have only learned from Narcissa, "tell me all about this wonderful transformation you've undergone. May I add," she said, poking Hermione in the ribs, "that you look _incredible_. It's no wonder Draco can't take his eye off of you." She teased.

Hermione and Astoria walked off, neither giving Oliver a second glance (though, he would have been gone by then if they had as he had already beelined toward the men) and settled themselves on one of the empty blankets.

Marietta sat with her baby, now accompanied by Daphne. Pansy ran around the lawns with Graham, Vince and Emmeline in what appeared to be a game of coppers and robbers with the children. Greg and Millie were snogging behind a tree and, evidently, working toward making another baby. As for their only child, she was currently being taught to walk – and kick – by her lovely Uncle Malcolm. Oliver, not shy in the slightest, joined Blaise, Theo and Draco in conversation away from the screaming children. Harry was at work, which was only proving more useless as time went on. Narcissa was smoking a cigarette on another blanket with a newspaper open to page six in front of her, though behind her sunglasses, she was watching everyone closely instead of reading.

It was odd, having almost everyone out and about on a fine September evening, and it didn't make much sense to Hermione until Astoria pulled a small package wrapped in brown paper out of her designer coat.

"Here," she breathed. "I made everyone promise not to make a big fuss. For the most part, they agreed right away, but Daphne took a bit more convincing," laughed Astoria. "You know how much they all loathe celebrating despite their distinguished reputation for doing it." Hermione took the small package and eyed it carefully. Astoria rolled her eyes. "It's not going to _hurt you_."

Still, Hermione hesitated.

"Bloody hell, Hermione," she groaned, taking the package back and ripping it open for her. Astoria gleamed at the tiny ring. "I know they haven't fully trusted you to carry your own weapons anymore," she stated. "Not that it would be highly encouraged for a woman in your position beside a soon-to-be member of parliament, _but_ I thought it unfair you have nothing."

Hermione recognized it instantly and beamed. A purple poison disguised as a beautiful amethyst gem, and it fit perfectly.

"I – Thank you," she replied. "But – I mean – Why?"

Astoria sighed, pursing her lips. "Don't act like you don't know it's your bloody birthday, Hermione. It would be unbelievably rude for me, as your best friend, of course, not to know when your birthday was or get you anything. Again, I did make the others promise not to do anything absurd. I know how you hate that sort of fuss," she confessed.

"But – I told all of you that my – well, _Penny's_ – birthday was the fourteenth. How did you - "

She cut her off with a wicked smirk.

"I have my ways," responded Astoria elusively.

That night, Hermione stayed up until a ridiculous hour talking to Astoria in her bedroom. She supposed she could have simply rolled over and fallen asleep next to the other woman – both of their slim figures would have no trouble fitting in Astoria's queen bed – but Hermione desperately wanted to stretch out in her own bed. Since sleeping alone, something she didn't think she could grow accustomed to after sharing a bed with Draco for so long, being in her own bed never felt more liberating.

The stairs creaked beneath her bare feet despite the added care Hermione took to tip toe through the Manors winding corridors.

"What are you doing up so late?"

Hermione shrieked, falling back against the wall for support as her knees gave out beneath her. In the dark corner, among the shadows, stood Draco. His silvery hair gleamed as he stepped into the dim lights lining the hallway.

"Bloody hell," she gasped, struggling to catch her breath. "What the fuck are you doing creeping around like that at night? It's absurd, and, frankly, you're lucky my instinct wasn't to swing at you."

Draco shrugged, "I wouldn't blame you if you did."

Hermione, utterly at a loss for words, shook her head as if to shake the image of him standing bare chested in front of her out of her mind. She padded down the last three steps before leaning against the wall.

He was blocking her path to her bedroom.

"What do you want?" She demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. Hermione was thankful that she hadn't changed into proper nightwear because it would have been that much more difficult to hold her ground when he looked at her like _that_ if she was in a silk slip.

"I wanted to wish you a happy birthday," he stated.

She nodded, pointedly eying the corridor he stood in front of. "Great, thanks." Still, he didn't move. As much as Hermione wanted to shimmy past him, she knew if she tried that he might reach out for her arm or waist. She wasn't entirely certain she was ready for that; the whiplash of his behavior still stung. "Is that it?" She prompted.

"No," Draco admitted. "Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday today? I thought it was days ago."

Hermione couldn't see why that mattered; it wasn't as if he had done anything particularly thoughtful then.

"That was the birthday I made up for Penny."

From the twitching around his mouth, Hermione could tell Draco was furious with that answer. She didn't know what else he was expecting, though. Not feeling remorseful for the unintended betrayal, Hermione sighed loudly.

"What do you want from me, Draco? What did you want me to tell you, hm? When?"

He stared at her.

The minutes ticked by, and the silence enveloped them both. Then, finally, Draco's silver eyes fell from her face.

"I don't know."

"Well," countered Hermione. "I don't, either."

"Goodnight."

He took off, taking the steps two at a time as he bounded up to the second floor. Hermione groaned inwardly and stormed off toward her bedroom. Lying awake that night, until the sun peaked through the curtains, Hermione replayed their brief interaction over and over again.

It plagued her, the flash of pain, like a bolt of lightning, in the dark and mysterious storm that was his eyes; they were as unreadable as they were an open book.

"Goodnight, Draco," she muttered to herself.

* * *

**A/N - **I sincerely apologize for how long this chapter took to post! I was traveling earlier in the month, then I got sick. Now, however, the story will move much more quickly so, expect updates more frequently, like with the prequel. Also, I cannot thank you all enough for the wonderful feedback on the first chapter of this sequel! I am truly over the moon and cannot wait to go through another journey will all of you. There is _so _much more to come xx

Chapter title is from Ed Sheeran's song _Take Me Back to London _featuring Stormzy, Aitch and Jaykae. It comes from the lines _where I'm from trap shit, let a twelve gauge drip / yeah, it's sick how it fits in my hand / I don't mix with the glitz and the glam _


	3. Mobbin' Like That

**Chapter 3: Mobbin' Like That**

* * *

_7 May 1929_

_WEDDING OF THE DECADE: _

_THE LOVE STORY OF MISS GRANGER AND LORD MALFOY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_Lord Draco Malfoy DCM OBE VC MP has always been a man of many talents and has achieved every goal he set his brilliant mind to (with evidence in his title alone!). A revered war veteran, Lord Malfoy's accomplishments in the Great War are the stuff of tales; his preeminent leadership and intent for self-sacrifice saved not only his brethren, but also a significant battle on the frontlines. A beloved son, Lord Malfoy returned from the war to only one parent and did not hesitate to set his mother, Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy née Black, on the path to success; our hearts go out to the prodigal son at the recent news of his mother, and the strength he must find in this most personally troubled time. _

_It begs the question, then, why Lord Malfoy's most infamous achievement is none of those previously mentioned. Rather, it is his impending marriage to Miss Hermione Granger that takes the cake._

_Miss Hermione Granger is also notoriously clever and accomplished. Although, she did not attend the most prestigious comprehensive school as a young girl, Miss Granger was able to secure herself a space at the University of Oxford. Miss Granger majored in English language and literature but spent half of her schooling years there working directly under the late Professor Longbottom, an esteemed chemist. Her inconsistency continued into her career as Miss Granger attended the London Metropolitan Police Academy, using neither her English literature and language nor her chemistry knowledge. Astonishingly, Miss Granger's career did not end there; shortly after graduating the academy, Miss Granger resigned from the force and was employed by none other than Malfoy Company Limited. _

_While Lord Malfoy's accomplishments have a clear path, Miss Granger's do not. _

_Though, since she has come under the employment of Malfoy Company Limited, Miss Granger has remained focused; she has since moved up from Lord Malfoy's secretary to his company's Chief Operations Officer, working directly under Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy. As the future Mrs. Malfoy, all eyes are on Miss Granger to see if she is able to measure up to the name, and there is much pressure as the legacy left by its predecessor is inimitable. However, we – as a nation – are eager to see how Miss Hermione Granger is able to fill this societal role bestowed upon her. _

_If there is one thing that we can all agree on, it is that if Lord Malfoy sees potential in his future wife, then we must as well._

Draco is the prodigal son of the nation and I am the dirt he walks on blah, blah, blah.

Nothing new.

Except, Rita nearly brought me to tears when referencing the doubt that the nation has in my ability to fill Narcissa's impactful, enormous shoes. I would never have imagined myself becoming irrefutably close with Draco's mother, especially when for the first five years I knew her she wanted nothing more than my head on a silver platter. We grew to not only respect one another, but to also revere and trust in one another.

It pains me to think about her now.

Partly because I _did _come to love her as my own mother (it probably helped that my actual mother was rather useless and distant), but mostly because I feel immensely guilty for her fate.

Nonetheless, I suppose that's my own karma. I would rather it be _me_ who pays the price, but when one makes a deal with the devil, it is never them who pays the price, is it? It is never them who makes the sacrifice, but instead it is always them who sacrifices another.

So, then, why should I be surprised?

I didn't know Tom was the devil, not when I first met him. I know now, though, and I look forward to spilling his blood. If there is one thing, I learned well from Narcissa, it is that revenge is the sweetest when meticulously planned and executed. Thus, tomorrow will be a _very _busy day. All I can hope now is that the latter of the execution goes according to plan – oh, and that Draco and I manage to avoid persecution for this. That would _greatly_ ruin my wedding day.

* * *

_21 March 1926_

"Come on, let me have a little taste. You _know _it'll be a good time."

"I would, really, except I think I want to keep this one around a bit longer than a one-night stand."

"Oh, please, we both know it would be more like a long weekend – _at least_."

"Wait – What?" Hermione blinked, tuning back into the conversation around her and registering equally mischievous grins across both Blaise and Astoria's faces. Hermione followed their line of sight to where Wood stood with a couple of visiting New Order members across the sitting room. "What are you two talking about?"

"Blaise, here," nodded Astoria with an exasperated sigh, "won't stop trying to sleep with my boyfriend - "

"Didn't you just say he was nothing more than something pretty to keep your attention and sexual needs up to par?" Blaise criticized, inhaling a puff of smoke and pressing his lips into a slightly disapproving line.

Astoria shrugged.

"Fine," she amended, "he's not my boyfriend – _yet_ – but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you persuade him into an illustrious, coke-filled weekend away. The _last time_ we did that, my boytoy went running for the bloody hills and – like I said before – I might actually want this one to stick around a bit longer."

"Hm," he grunted. "I suppose that means I'll have to return to my efforts in the pursuit of one, fiery Ginevra Weasley."

"Wait," Hermione chimed in, finally piecing everything together. "Blaise, are you – I thought you were gay?" She blinked; a bit dumbstruck.

Blaise exchanged a wary look with Astoria, then shook his head disapprovingly at Hermione. "Shame on you, Granger," he chided playfully. "Thinking I would dare limit myself to _one gender_? With these god-like good looks? Honey… They all want me, and, really, who am I to deny them?" He paused. "I thought you were cleverer than that."

"Oh," said Hermione after a moment. "Alright, then."

Astoria laughed; a beautiful melodic laugh that lit up the room. "Don't worry, Hermione. You aren't the first person to make the mistake of not putting Blaise on a high-enough pedestal, and I doubt you'll be the last." Blaise nodded in confirmation, then dragged through half of his cigarette. "It _is_ quite irritating, though," Astoria added with a sidelong, playful glare at Blaise, "when he and I have the same fucking taste in men."

"You can say that again."

"You – You do?" Hermione asked, taking a tentative sip of her blackcurrant juice and wishing it was even marginally alcoholic; withdrawals were a bitch, but she was almost a year sober and fuck all if she was ruining that streak.

"Oh, yes," Blaise supplied. "It's a difficult, increasingly lonely life for one who shares the same taste in men with the enrapturing Astoria and the same taste in women as the enigmatic Draco." At Hermione's clear shock, Blaise waved his hand impatiently at her. "Don't fret, Granger. Draco has only ever had eyes for you. You were always off-limits."

"So," Hermione began, trying not to think about Blaise's last comment too deeply. "You – Astoria – men – Draco – women – then - "

"Yes," confirmed Astoria with a cutting laugh. "It _never_ happened, though, thank fuck for that."

"It was some form of fate, I'm sure," said Blaise. "Can you imagine how _catastrophic_ that would be if the three of us slept together?" Astoria and Blaise theatrically shivered and rejected the idea, while Hermione's head immediately reeled with images of Blaise and Astoria tangled between the sheets with _Draco_. A catastrophe indeed, she mused.

Then, an ugly thought popped into her head; Hermione recalled that Blaise had not only said he intended to pursue _Ginny_, but also that he had the same taste in women as Draco. As if bringing the very dreadful realization to life, Draco emerged from the office opposite the sitting room with Ginny on his heels. Hermione averted her gaze quickly, willing her pulse to calm the hell down.

"Gin," said one of the New Order members – whom Hermione then recognized as Emmeline – that had been talking to Wood a moment ago. "Ron just sent a messenger and said he needs us back immediately."

Ginny nodded to him, then peered over her shoulder at Draco imploringly. Hermione's insides twisted unkindly when Draco didn't immediately scowl back; she tried to tell herself it was because he was playing the brilliant diplomatic, and _not_ because they may have shared more than words behind closed doors.

"I'll get back to you on our arrangement as soon as this new development is dealt with," she informed him briskly. Draco nodded. Ginny turned her attention to the other New Order member, "Diggory," she said, "Find Potter, will you? We might need him today."

Ginny caught Draco's raised silver brows and arched her own red ones defiantly, challenging him.

"That won't be a problem, will it?"

Draco's lips twitched at the corners, hinting at a smirk. "No," he replied calmly. "By all means, take Potter." He paused as she and Emmeline moved to leave the room. "While you're at it," he added, halting her at the door. "Keep him."

"Won't Nott get lonely?" Ginny countered, earning a snicker from Blaise and Astoria. Draco shrugged, nonchalant, and Ginny disappeared through the threshold. Hermione waited all of three seconds before following them out of the room. She caught the tall man named Diggory turn to the left, heading up the main staircase, but Hermione knew Harry could only be in one place this close to midnight if it weren't with Theo.

Hermione descended the stairs in the back of the Manor and crept down the dimly lit dungeons, peering in the open stalls for any sign of Harry. Finally, at the last one, she saw him.

"Seriously?" She asked, gesturing to the triangular blades in his hands. "Haven't you grown tired of that, by now? If you haven't picked it up in your three years of living here, then I don't know if you ever will."

Harry merely shrugged, then threw one of the Eastern-style blades at the target across the wall. It landed to the right of the shaded outline of a person.

"Wonderful," she drawled, slow clapping for him. "Now, he's still alive and even more pissed. You've effectively signed your death warrant, Potter." He grimaced at her, then shoved the remaining two blades in her hands.

"Let's see you do better then, know-it-all," he scoffed, stepping back to give her a clear shot.

Hermione didn't want to play into his games; she also _really_ didn't want to show off if it was only going to make him more upset, especially since she'd come down here to get information out of him before he was hauled away to stay with the New Order for hell knows how long.

Eventually, the need to prove her worth won out.

Her fingers curled around the triangular-shaped blades. They were smaller than the weapons she was used to throwing at targets, lighter than most weapons in general, and also wickedly sharp. Hermione bit her lip as one nicked her in the process of her adjusting to gripping them. She caught Harry's roguish grin from the corner of her eye. The first blade left her fingers and soared through the air, piercing the top right corner of the target; _not_ actually hitting the outlined figure.

Harry grunted, "Ha,"

Hermione closed her eyes, weighed the last blade in her hand again, then trusted her acquired instincts to take over. Again, she threw the blade. This time, however, it landed squarely in the center of the figure's neck.

"You missed," muttered Harry, shifting to retrieve the blades from the opposite wall.

She shook her head, "I didn't miss. If that blade had connected with _your_ throat, then you would have likely bled out in seconds." She pressed two of her fingers to either side of her throat, tapping her arteries knowingly.

"Whatever," Harry grumbled. "You're still a know-it-all,"

Hermione shrugged.

After a moment, they both made their way out of the room and up toward the main part of the Manor. Harry glanced askance at her, catching – as he usually did – an underlying suspicion regarding her intentions. "Why did you come looking for me?" He asked.

"I need something from you," she admitted, not bothering to lie to him. As generally unperceptive and unaware as Harry could be on a daily basis, he _did_ have a knack for knowing when someone was hiding something; even if didn't know what that might be. "Information," she added, stopping him just before the door at the top of the stairs.

Harry arched an ebony eyebrow, pressing his round glasses further up the bridge of his nose inquiringly.

"Ginny Weasley," she growled. "What does she want? What does she _really_ want?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's not Draco, Hermione, relax. She's here on official New Order business, you know that."

"Still, she could also be - "

"She isn't." He said, cutting her off. "I thought you didn't care about him anymore, anyway?" Harry challenged with another roguish grin. Hermione groaned.

"It's complicated."

"Right," he nodded, playing along.

"Never mind. Forget I said anything. She's looking for you, by the way. _Official New Order business, _I presume," she muttered, pushing the door open forcefully and storming through. A hand caught her wrist, pulling her to a stop. Harry's emerald eyes scanned her face for a moment before he let her go. Hermione wanted to run, especially given the somewhat pitiful look on his face, but her feet were grounded.

"If you don't believe me, then why don't you come with me and see for yourself?"

Hermione scoffed, "What?"

"Seriously, Hermione. It would be good for you. It'll help get your mind off things, and if Ginny asked me to come back with them, then I have a feeling that was actually for Ron's sake which means, most likely, there might be a few bones for you to break if you come with me. _That_ will certainly get your mind off Draco," he shrugged.

Hermione considered it.

"Why would they ask for you if there's going to be a fight?" She countered, crossing her arms and aiming for mockery to bide her time. "It's not like you're the most skilled fighter they have – Oh – Don't tell me you _are_ – No _wonder_ they call you the bloody Chosen One. They're all helplessly doomed," she pouted.

"Shut up," he quipped, elbowing her. Harry pursed his lips. "You know they can fight, Hermione, and stop stalling. You coming with me or not?"

"I'm not supposed to put myself in danger - "

"When has that ever stopped you before, hm?" He chuckled. Harry swung an arm around her neck, steering her toward a confused Diggory and impatient Ginny waiting at the end of the hall. "Come on. It's about time you met the New Order, anyway," he beamed.

* * *

"Here we are," Harry whispered in Hermione's ear as she slid off of the back of a tall Clydesdale; her back was sore from the ride because she wasn't used to riding horses anymore, being surrounded by the Malfoy's wealth and preference for automobiles. "Welcome to the Burrow."

The Burrow was the headquarters of the New Order – or, the largest of the several safe houses they operated from, which Harry had kindly informed her on their way there.

Hermione took in the towering building before her with a heightened sense of skepticism. It was enormous, easily housing as many rooms as Malfoy Manor, but it was decidedly less affluent. For one thing, it was located in a very dangerous part of the city. For another, which caused Hermione to falter in stepping through the creaking front door behind the others, was that the old, brick building looked ready to collapse at any minute. From the outside, it was clearly falling apart, and from the inside, it wasn't much better. Even from her quick surveillance of the grand entrance room, it was evident that up-keep and grandeur was very, _very_ low on the New Order's list of importance.

"What the fuck is _she_ doing here?"

Hermione locked eyes with the grimacing ginger who jabbed a freckled finger in her direction. She recognized him as one of the Weasleys; he was Harry's best mate, Ron, the apparent leader of the New Order, and the very first person that Hermione had ever stabbed with a blade.

"She's with us," supplied Harry, effectively protecting her from any future criticism of her presence. "Come off it, Ron, don't be like that. She can be helpful to whatever you've called us all here for, I'm sure."

Ron's grimace deepened, but he didn't continue to argue. Well, not _that_ point anyway. He turned to his sister, flinging an arm in Hermione's direction again, and bellowed, "You agreed to this?" After a breath of hesitation, Ginny nodded. "Why? What were you _thinking_ – Bloody hell," Ron paused. "Was she even _blindfolded?_"

"She was not," sniffed Ginny.

"It wouldn't have made a difference if she had been," came an oddly familiar voice. "She would have figured out where she, and ultimately the Burrow, was anyway. She's far brighter than any of us, Ron."

Hermione squinted into the darkness. The room was dimly lit, by only a few yellowed lamps and scattered candles, making it difficult for her to see everyone gathered in the dark corners of the spacious room. She knew the Order had outnumbered the Death Eaters; Narcissa and Draco had said it often enough for her to believe it, but she hadn't quite realized _how_ much they outnumbered them.

From her initial scan of the room, Hermione recognized nearly a dozen of the original Order members that had shown up to various bar brawls against the Death Eaters. All of the Weasleys were present, which was predictable, as well as a few women Hermione recognized by description. Moody and Lupin, in particular, glared back at her with extremely narrowed eyes. Peering a bit closer at the bodies surrounding her, however, Hermione realized there were about another ten faces she had never seen before, nor could recall have ever been described.

Her pulse raced uneasily.

Still, Hermione couldn't make out who had made the comment about her cleverness. Then, the most unexpected face stepped out of the shadows and into the light, placing an arm on Ron's shoulder before approaching her. Hermione stepped forward, unable to prevent her jaw from dropping.

"_Longbottom?_"

A crooked smile pulled at his lips. "I thought I told you to call me Neville."

"Oh," input Harry. "I forgot you two know each other."

Ron gaped, "What the actual _fuck _– "

"We don't have time for this." Ginny snapped, holding up a hand to shut her brother up. She spun around to face Harry, Hermione and Neville. "You two can catch up later. Right now, we have work to do." Ginny reached for a light, sparked a cigarette, then waved everyone around a large wooden table in the center of the room.

Hermione, quickly to Harry before they joined the others, whispered, "I thought you said your best mate was the leader?"

He tilted his head back and forth, not a direct yes or no, in reply. "He is, technically. It's more of a diversion tactic, to be honest. They wanted me to be the leader, but with my liaison between the New Order and the Death Eaters, it didn't fit well enough. To throw suspicion off the real leader, Ron is the decoy one." He gestured to where Ginny was opening several enormous rolls of parchment and snapping her fingers at various members.

"I see," replied Hermione. "It protects her in any kind of attack." It was clever, she mused internally. Quite clever. "It's a bit suicidal of your mate, isn't it? Brave, sure, but stupid."

"You said the same thing about me once," Harry chuckled. "It's true for most of us, I expect. Though," he paused, throwing her a smirk as they shifted closer to the table. The next words out of Harry's mouth were whispered so quietly, they were practically inaudible, but Hermione made them out – and they came to haunt her. "You aren't too different from us, are you?"

"Bloody hell, does she really need to be right here?" Ron snapped, crossing his arms. Hermione sighed, sensing this was going to be a recurring theme if she didn't defend herself. Evidently, Harry's word – and Ginny's subsequent backing of it (which was still a mystery to her) – was good enough for everyone else (for now).

"I understand you don't like me," Hermione said, glaring back at him. "Trust me, the feeling is mutual. If you let me, I assure you I can of use to whatever it is you have to do." She nodded toward Harry on her left and Neville on her right. "They can vouch for my abilities."

"Who's to say you aren't just here to spy on us for Malfoy?" Ron countered.

Ginny sighed heavily, but let the interruptions carry on. She, like Hermione, must have believed it better to get the bickering over with now rather than allow it to build and explode later.

"Because, you dim-wit - " said one of the Weasley twins.

"- we work _with_ Malfoy now," finished the other twin.

"For now," grumbled Lupin. Beside him, a woman with bright magenta hair scoffed and slinking one arm around his waist and the other around a bump protruding from her stomach; she was heavily pregnant.

"I don't like it," sounded Moody. A couple of other members grunted and nodded their assent, but again, Harry spoke up and silenced them all.

"Listen," he sighed. "I know your instincts are not to trust Malfoy _or_ Hermione, here, but you're going to have to. Like George said, we work _with_ them now. You all knew that was part of the deal when you signed up to join the New Order," he said. Lupin and Moody exchanged unhappy glances but remained silent following Harry's pointed stare. "If you don't want to be part of this, then there's the door. No one is forcing you to stay."

At the lack of response, Ginny pointedly put out her cigarette on the table and cleared her throat.

"Right, are we bloody done here?" There were muttered responses of assent. Ginny huffed, crossed her arms, then nodded to Ron. "You called this meeting – why?"

Ron nudged a tall boy next to him. "Cormac caught wind of suspicious activity near Camden. It sounds like more of the usual stuff to me, but then he mentioned something about the missing boys being from that area and – Yeah – Figured it was worth looking into."

"McLaggen," Ginny said, addressing him, "What _exactly_ did you hear?"

"McLaggen," Hermione gasped under her breath. He was one of the coppers on Malfoy's payroll. Hermione wondered if the New Order was planting spies in Draco's vicinity for a darker purpose, or if Draco even knew about it. Hermione relaxed her face, conscious of Harry's – and many others – eyes on her; scrutinizing her every micro-expression. Later, she would bring this up.

"Well," he drawled, catching Hermione's eye and subtly winking; she fumed. "Slughorn says another two boys went missing last night."

"That brings the total up to seven now," supplied Lupin.

"Right," nodded McLaggen. "He's still on the case, can't figure it out. Honestly, it's got all of us coppers a bit stumped, but then a few hours ago there was something… strange… going on East of Camden Market. It wasn't clear what the guys were saying, but it sounded like gang violence."

"Gang violence?" Ginny repeated, unconvinced. "There aren't any gangs in that area."

"That we know of," interjected Neville with a shrug.

"Well, we're hardly going to go barging in there based on some fuzzy communications about _suspected gang violence_." Ginny said. She shook her head, "That's not enough on its own."

"What about the boys?" A new voice chimed in.

Ginny sighed, making eye contact with her parents uneasily. She leaned forward, spreading her palms against the parchment on the table; her flaming crimson hair fell over her shoulders. Hermione, finally looking more closely at the parchment taking up the entirety of the long table, realized it was a map of London. There were the usual militaristic markings that were usually present on Theo's maps for Death Eater business as well, but then there were several symbols Hermione _didn't _recognize.

She committed them to memory for later research.

"I'm working on that." Ginny finally ruled. "I'm concerned about them. Malfoy is even more concerned about them. But that doesn't mean their disappearances have anything to do with whatever else is going on around Camden."

"So, we're going to do nothing?" Harry questioned, brows furrowed and mouth deeply downturned. Ginny looked up, and, for once, Hermione saw that she seemed to soften, looking genuinely downcast about the prospect.

"For now," she ruled.

"Why?" Pressed Harry.

"Yeah," seconded Ron. "A few of us can go take a look around. Not Cormac, no offense, mate," – "None taken," – "but a few of us who are less recognizable. It's worth a shot, don't you think?"

Ginny considered this. "Fine. No Weasleys, though, sorry Ron." He looked ready to argue, but his father laid a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

"She's right, Ronald," said his father. "We're too easily recognizable. It was a fair point you made, even if it means you can't go." At his son's obvious anger at being left out from his own plan, he added, "We can work out the details for them and make sure everything goes smoothly."

Ron, probably more willing to break femurs than sketch plans, shook free of his father's grip but said nothing against the suggestion. Hermione was impressed he knew when to hold his tongue seeing as thus far, she seriously doubted he knew how. The irony of her inner criticism, seconds after she thought it, was not lost on her.

"That's sorted then." Ginny declared. She flicked her wrist toward three men and one woman to her left. "Diggory," – "Which one?" Two men asked in unison – "Both of you," she ruled, earning a nod from what must be a father and son duo, Hermione realized. "Macmillan and Chang, you two go with them. Be vigilant." She turned to Ron, "You, Fred and George run this from the Burrow."

"Sorry there wasn't an outlet for you to punch," shrugged Harry as they made their way back outside to the Clydesdale.

"It's fine," Hermione supplied, hoisting herself up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist as he took the reins. "You owe me, though," she mocked as they took off for the Manor.

* * *

Hermione didn't jump along with the other aristocratic women at the sound of the gun going off; she was far too used to hearing that familiar, deadly pop. Her gaze cut across to the empty seat next to hers, and she sighed. Where the bloody hell was Draco now? She stood, excused herself from the rest of the abominable bourgeoise party she sat with in the spectator booth, and left them to watch the horses race around in the dust on their own. Per usual, the attraction was _not _the reason she and Draco were in attendance, and Hermione was not about to let him carry on with his Death Eater work without her.

She nearly died for them, and she'll be damned if she's left out of another event.

In the past few months, business picked up just as Draco's new responsibilities as an MP did. He spent most evenings in Westminster, while Theo overlooked the Death Eater's and Hermione struggled to be of service to Narcissa and the company. Business as usual; except, when everything seemed eerily mundane, Hermione instinctively became suspicious. This time, she suspected Draco's disappearance had less to do with acquiring a third whiskey and more to do with re-establishing his superiority in the betting shops.

Sure enough, when Hermione slipped into a side alley beneath the racetracks, she saw Graham emerge from the shadows and spark a cigarette. The decision on whether or not to reveal herself to him weighed on her shoulders. Before she could come to a decision, though, Graham spotted her.

"Oi," he said, coughing up a puff of smoke into the darkness. "What the fuck are you – Does Draco know that – No – I bet he doesn't," he shook his head, rested his arm on her upper back, and guided her further into the alley. "_I'm_ not surprised, really, but still," he muttered. "Draco won't be pleased."

"I don't give a fuck if Draco is pleased," snapped Hermione.

"Clearly," came a new voice from the shadows. His luminous blond hair shimmered in the dim lighting as Draco stepped out and settled his darkened grey gaze on her. "You never learn, do you, Granger?"

"Sod off," she replied.

"Hm," he grunted. Draco nodded mutely to Graham over her head, and the other man instantly tightened his grip on her shoulders, swiveling her back toward to racetrack.

"Wait,"

The voice was definitely not Draco's low, timber voice. Instead, it was high-pitched and rang like that of church bells; melodic, piercing, and slightly foreboding. Hermione frowned. Graham paused, turning to face Draco with a quizzical expression. Draco, though, didn't look nearly as restless or anxious as Graham did, but extremely irate and not at all taken aback. Interesting.

"Let her stay," came the same voice; this time, Hermione was able to place it as distinctly feminine. She blinked into the darkness and finally caught another gold glint as the petite woman stepped forward. "You must be Hermione Granger," noted the other woman. Her iridescent skin gleamed and her bountiful curls – not dissimilar to Hermione's in texture – fell over her shoulder when she tilted her head inquiringly. "Are you going to fucking answer? Or are you mute?"

Hermione blinked; how she was still able to be shook by vulgarity was beyond her.

"Yes," she grimaced. "Who the hell are you?"

The young woman blinked; her large, owl-like eyes bore into Hermione. "I would think a woman of your perceived intelligence would know precisely who I am, Miss Granger," she drawled. Then, her eyes lifted to the ceiling. "Curiouser and curiouser." Hermione looked up but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. "Let's get back to fucking business, shall we?" She said, prompting the others to follow.

Draco and Graham followed suit, and, after a breath of hesitation, so did Hermione. The small statured woman – no taller than Hermione, if the same height – led all of them through winding, dark alleys until they emerged into an open, lit space. Beside a door at the other end of the space stood three menacing men. Hermione glanced at her two men to gauge whether or not she should panic. Their faces were placid, if a bit pale, so, Hermione exhaled slowly.

"Scar Joe," said the woman to one of the men, "escort Lord Malfoy and his companions to Azkaban," she waited for half a moment, her wide eyes narrowing at the man; his dark eyes flickered up and down the three of them, then nodded askance to the young woman. "Lovely, now fuck off," she added, flicking her wrist.

Scar Joe – which Hermione suspected was not his actual name – was an enormously muscular man with a striking, jagged scar down his left profile who towered over the three of them. His lip curled into a mean, sly smile. "This way," he grunted, leading them out of the door behind the blonde woman and the other two men. Hermione, again, glanced at Draco and Graham. The latter of the two looked immensely more concerned than he had a few minutes ago, but the former simply nodded and ducked through the doorway without looking back.

In the backseat of the car, Hermione – squeezed between Graham and Draco – hissed, "Malfoy, what the fuck are we doing? What is this?" He gave her a tired expression; one she was all-too familiar with when she first started working with him. "I ask too many fucking questions," she muttered, "I know. But you can't seriously tell me you _trust_ these people?"

"Trust has nothing to do with it," he finally answered.

His grey eyes flickered up and Hermione caught the dark eyes of Scar Joe meeting his in the rearview mirror. She gulped. Aware that she had probably already said too much but unable to prevent herself from pressing the issue further, added, "Who _are_ these people? The woman she – she seems younger but – obviously, she must be lethal – I – is this Death Eater business?" Hermione asked with her voice as low as it could go while still being audible to Draco.

"If it is, then it's none of your business," he snapped back. "I haven't forgotten that you aren't even supposed to _be_ here," he reminded her unkindly.

Hermione frowned; her lips pressed into a thin, angry line. "_I_ have not forgotten that _you_ were just going to leave me there had I not went looking for you,"

Draco's gaze slid across to finally meet hers, and her breath hitched. The fire in his eyes was unmistakable. "You keep doing that – looking for me – and it's going to get you killed. It hasn't yet, because somehow you've been extremely lucky, but that luck will run out, and then where will we be?" He shook his head, and Hermione thought for a moment she had heard genuine concern behind his cruel tone. "You never learn," he said again.

Some twenty minutes later Scar Joe pulled up beside a warehouse on the edge of the Thames, outside the city center – Azkaban. Hermione nervously twisted the amethyst ring around her finger. She traipsed behind Draco and Graham, taking note of everything she saw in case this insanely questionable business deal went horribly sideways. The tall chimneys of the brick building released clouds of black, which were already beginning to make her eyes water; there was a loud clogging, sounding every sixty seconds on the second; to her right was the coursing, black water of the Thames, but to her left were demolished buildings and not a single person in sight.

An ideal location to murder or hostage people, but not exactly the best spot for a decent getaway.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The blonde woman said to a man guarding an old, iron door. She snapped her fingers in his face, cutting off his hurried response. "No – No – I'll tell you what the fuck you're doing – Fuck all, that's what – The fuck is this?" She paused briefly to pinch a flask from his coat pocket. "Fuck off," she said.

The man, trembling, hesitated for a moment, then took off toward the demolished buildings. The woman waited approximately ten seconds before she whipped a revolver from her waistband and aimed it at the retreating figure. The gunshot echoed through the industrial park.

"Never fucking liked him anyway," she sniffed.

Hermione blanched.

"Muscles McGee," the woman chirped, holstering her weapon. "Take Mr. Montague aside for a little chat." One of the three men stepped forward and gestured for Graham to follow him inside. Hermione wanted to insist that Graham _not_ go wherever this madwoman told him to go, but before she could even think about saying anything, Draco's hand clamped down on her wrist.

"Don't," he murmured in her ear.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. _What the fuck was happening?_ she thought.

"Handsome James," said the woman, summoning the taller and leaner of the two remaining men to her side. "Search them," she instructed, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag.

Unlike many other bouncers and doormen, Handsome James' nimble fingers were invasive; he thoroughly patted her and Draco down. Other than the ring – which thankfully went unnoticed – Hermione hadn't adorned any weapons. Handsome James handed Draco's two guns and the knife he kept in his sock to the woman. She nodded to Draco's newsboy cap – ordinarily he didn't wear it to prestigious sporting events, but he did wear it this time – and held out her hand expectantly. Draco willingly obliged, placing the cap in her small palm.

"Clever," she commented, ripping the blade from its seam and tossing the cap back at Draco.

Inside the old warehouse were rows of tall drums hissing and billowing smoke. Hermione counted the barrels and quickly did the math; based on the amount of liquor produced by the end of one week _alone_ this madwoman would see a sizeable profit. Hermione wondered if, perhaps, Draco's business with her was related to his gin industry. Though, that didn't seem to fit well with Graham's presence or the obvious lack of cover-up for Draco's less-favorable hobbies.

"So," the woman began, taking a seat behind a desk that seemed to swallow her up, "You want to fucking talk? Let's fucking talk, then," she waved her hand, gesturing with the cigarette for him to start the conversation.

Draco's eyes lifted pointedly to the two men standing behind the woman.

"Don't mind them," she told him primly. "They are sworn to secrecy and to me. Unless I say so – or die – they won't dare repeat a word of this." Her blue eyes flickered to Hermione sitting beside Draco. "I imagine the same thing can be said about your fucking bird?"

"Yes," he replied. "But you already knew that."

"I know many things," shrugged the woman.

"As do I," countered Draco, leaning back in his armchair; despite the comfortable position, though, Hermione could see his muscles were tensed. "We have a lot in common, don't you think?"

"That's rather obvious, isn't it, Malfoy? Or else, why would either of us be here, hm?" Her gaze shifted so that she was staring at some fixed corner of the room; again, Hermione didn't see anything noteworthy. "I suppose it can also be said that none of us are really here. If there is such a thing as _here_. There are many contexts of the word, and yet none of them come with a justifiable answer. Wouldn't you agree?"

Draco nodded, "Absolutely."

Hermione's head swam.

"Right," said the woman. "You give me what the fuck I want, and I give you what the fuck you want. Basic partner shite. If this fuckery goes belly-up and _I _get caught, then you die."

"If this fuckery goes belly-up and you get caught, then I die." Draco repeated, mimicking her wording in a tone of agreeance. "If this fuckery goes belly-up and _I _get caught, then you take the blame."

"And _then_ you die," finished the woman, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

Draco tapped his fingers against his thigh. "And then I die," he repeated.

"_What?_" Hermione shrieked, rising to her feet, and finally breaking her silence. "How on earth is that - "

"Sit down, Miss Granger," cut in the woman with a smug expression. She inhaled another long drag, then exhaled a puff of smoke directly toward the ceiling. "There won't be any silly shite or foolish fuckery going on here. Malfoy and I are very skilled at what we do – _very_ skilled." She paused, tipping her cigarette toward Hermione's clenched fists. "You think I didn't notice that pretty little poison on your finger? Fuck off,"

Hermione opened her mouth to quip back a snotty retort, but the woman waved her hand.

"Don't bother fucking denying it," she went on. "You can bloody well keep it for all I care. The sooner you realize that I am a threat _but not to you_, then the sooner we can all be bloody friends and sing fucking kumbaya." Her blue eyes shifted to Draco, ready to resume their conversation.

Hermione tasted blood; she'd bit through the inside of her cheek.

"Who the hell _are you_?" She seethed, not giving a damn if she interrupted their strange, nonsensical meeting.

"I," replied the madwoman with a particularly piercing glare and mischievous grin, "am Luna Lovegood."

* * *

Since December, Draco had officially been sworn in as a Member of Parliament, into the House of Lords – no less – and secured the position he coveted so strongly the year before; he now had the power to shape the country's future from within the Chamber walls, not just from the dirty, smog-filled streets of London. It was everything he wanted, and yet, Hermione suspected it was every bit a nightmare for him as well.

By the end of May, especially, his responsibilities were taking a toll on him.

Normally, Hermione was busy keeping his company afloat with Narcissa, but this evening she accompanied him to Westminster. It wasn't unusual for wives or girlfriends to be present in Westminster; they were strictly forbidden from entering the chambers when in session, but they were welcome to stroll the grounds and chat in the lounges. Hermione and Draco, though, were what Parliament considered to be high-profile persons. Ordinarily, that _also_ wouldn't force Hermione into hiding away in dark library corners when she went to Westminster, but when partnered with her and Draco's unstable relationship, well…

They were careful to keep up the charade of dazzling lovers when in the public eye. This included in front of everyone in Westminster, too, unfortunately. They held onto each other as though the thought of _not touching_ was preposterous, or even marginally detrimental to their health; they were seen leaving and entering the Palace of Westminster with beaming smiles across their face; they ensured that the press captured every _stolen_ glance, _warm_ embrace, and _loving_ kiss.

Behind closed doors, however, Draco went about his business as MP as usual, and Hermione secluded herself either in his office – only when he was in the Chamber – or in the depths of the library.

Her muscles ached from that morning's tasks with Narcissa (drafting over a hundred letters to clients renting property from the company – that she ultimately did "wrong" and had to redo, which took hours) and that afternoon's training session with Astoria (where she and Wood boxed and grappled for hours – Wood repeatedly pinning her with his brutish Scottish tactics). Hermione stood, stretched her sore limbs, and replaced her book in the shelf. She emerged from her corner of the library to find it entirely deserted.

The grandfather clock read quarter past two in the morning.

Exhausted, Hermione set off to find Draco. Surely, he would be eager to return to the Manor by now. Trusting that he hadn't already left her, Hermione descended the grand staircase of the library to the main floor, then turned down the familiar path from its haven to that of Draco's office.

A hand snuck out and tugged her into a dark corridor and another wrapped around her mouth. Hermione immediately sunk her kitten heel into the shin of the person who grabbed her, then spun and swung a fist for her opponent's temple, hoping to throw off their equilibrium.

"Whoa," chuckled Tom, blocking her incoming fist. "There's no need for that, love," he said, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't scare me," retorted Hermione.

"No," he agreed, and his blue eyes glinted. "I suspect I didn't." Tom's hands were cold, surprisingly so given the warmth of the stone building in the late spring evening and the heat of his breath on her neck.

Most of their relationship had involved hushed conversation about various intellectually intriguing topics such as the effect of shell shock on veteran's mental health, which circumstances make it easier to dehumanize one's enemies, and how impressionable the young and vulnerable can be. For months, Tom had not pressured Hermione into doing anything that she was not strictly and wholly comfortable with.

"I know your predicament," he told her early on, when they had first encountered a highly charged interaction, "and I don't pretend to understand the difficulties of your situation. You and Lord Malfoy are beloved by the public, and I am not eager to be the man who is blamed for your separation. Should the time come where you would like to be more than friends, Miss Granger," Tom said, "then I will gladly accept whatever you can give me. I want you, however I can have you, and for however long. But I want to hear it from your lips – your lips _only_."

Thus, Hermione remained silent.

For one, in part, because Tom was right. Her predicament was peculiar, and that was from his perspective on the outside – he had no idea what he was asking her to do; how much she would be risking her life (even if he did supposedly know about the Death Eaters, he couldn't possibly understand the extent of her precarious position within the gang).

For another, and most importantly, because she wasn't sure what (re: _who_) she wanted.

Draco was familiar, though recently unavailable and cold, but now and then Hermione caught a glimpse of the old them – the old flame – and it always left her with an ember of hope, sparking to life. Tom, conversely, was new and exciting; his ocean eyes entranced her heart and his unfamiliar hands thrilled her soul.

It was an impossible decision, and not one she planned on making lightly.

There were many factors at state, though as Tom's breath hitched, hands lingered on her hips, and gaze flickered to her lips, Hermione suddenly forgot everything that had been warring inside her head. Her mind went blank.

"Tom," she whispered breathlessly.

"Yes?" He smirked.

Hermione opened, then closed her mouth.

Tom tutted, backing away a breath of a distance. "I told you, Hermione," he said, tucking a frazzled curl behind her ear. "You have to say it. I need to hear the words. Or," he paused, dropping his hand from behind her ear to graze along her clavicle, "I won't touch you. I can't."

At the word _touch_ coming from his perfectly curved lips, Hermione's resolve withered.

"I want you," she gasped, choking on the confession. "I do. I want you Tom,"

The dark glint in his eyes shone in the incoming moonlight. "Good," he whispered against her cheek, once again leaning into her. "Wait," he sighed, backing away and, but this time dragging her with him, out of the alcove. In the quiet darkness, the two of them slipped through the deserted corridors and wound up a side staircase until the stepped foot onto a narrower corridor; offices lined both sides, and Hermione gasped, instantly jerking out of Tom's grip.

"What the hell are we doing here?" She gasped.

He shot her a devilish smirk. "Need not worry, Hermione. We aren't paying your precious boyfriend a visit." Tom led her into one of the unlocked offices and shut the door behind them with a soft click. "This is myoffice," he informed her.

Hermione had to admit she never realized that his office existed just thirty meters away from Draco's, but, then again, they had never met in his office before. This was the first time they had ever been alone – truly alone. The returned glint in Tom's eyes relayed that the thought had occurred to him as well, and that he had no intention of letting the opportunity pass.

"Do you know how much I have wanted you, Hermione?" Tom murmured, backing Hermione against his desk. He picked her up and placed her atop the desk with ease, knocking papers onto the floor. "It has been rewarding to become so familiar with your quick, witty mind." He laughed. "I still don't fully understand it, I'll admit. You continue to perplex me; like a puzzle I could only dream of solving."

_Extraordinarily puzzling _–

"I cannot lie, though," he went on, "and pretend as though I haven't wondered what it would be like to touch you – to feel your skin burn for me and lick the salt off of you after an evening well spent."

His hands secured her hips to his, and Hermione could feel his erection pressing against his trousers.

When his lips finally met hers, the gravitational pull Hermione felt toward him tore open. He took her next breath, holding it captive; his arms ensnared around her body, diminishing the space between them in an instant. If Draco was to be her sun, planets, and all her stars, then what was to come of Tom? Who was he to her? Tom was controlling, possessive, and highly attentive; that much, Hermione already knew about him before he slid her skirt up over her hips and tugged roughly at the tights beneath it. His nimble fingers quickly released one clasp atop her thigh and moved onto the other, meanwhile his teeth sank into the fragile skin at the bottom of her throat.

Tom was detrimental, dark and entirely unknown. He was the bleak blackness of space and behaved like a vacuum, drawing her in with the promise of safety and then ripping her very _being_ to shreds the moment she was his. There would no turning back, once the damage was done – Tom was a blackhole.

Hermione felt trapped.

This was not what she wanted.

Not at _all_.

For the past six years, Hermione's body – and mind – had only ever known one other man, though sometimes it felt like she had known several. Draco could effortlessly shift his persona; it had been a trait that she had never quite grown comfortable with, until this moment.

More often than not, Hermione saw the leader of the Death Eaters face. He was cruel and distant, devoid of emotion in order to make the most calculated decision. This face of Draco's was cunning and highly logical, though to a point that made Hermione's head spin more than once. His morals were often skewed when he wore this face, which made her previous existence as Penny perilous beyond measure.

Then, there was the face he wore when he was alone with her. It had taken her a while to earn this version of Draco – to glimpse at the man others followed blindly, loyally, and were willing to die for. This was the version of Draco that Hermione had come to fall in love with because it was his barest face; he wore his heart on his sleeve. He was everything to her when he wore this face, and although she hadn't seen it in a long time, she knew it was there. It had to be.

Lastly, there was the ghost face Draco had recently taken up. It was her least favorite because she didn't recognize it. He was vacant, stoic and avoided her as often as he could. When he was in her presence, this face was unreadable, more so than the first face that she had come to understand. Draco would look at her without really looking at her – instead, staring right through her as if she didn't exist; as if she didn't matter.

The opposite of love, as Hermione had learned the hard way, was not hate, but apathy.

In all of the times she and Draco were intimate, there existed several different moods, so to speak. There were the ones that were passionate and hot, where hands could not rip cloth from searing skin quick enough, and then the ones that were divine and saccharine, where it was unclear where one of them ended and the other began.

It was this last mood that woke Hermione up like a splash of cold water straight to the face.

She and Draco destroyed each other nearly as much as they worshipped each other, and it was the result of this twin flame that existed between them that brought as much pain as it did pleasure in their relationship. It wasn't evident to Hermione just how tied to each other she and Draco were (she once called it destiny, and she supposed fate could be cruel in its way given their history) until Tom touched her. It was his enticing conversation and alluring gaze that pulled her in, but it was his touch that pushed her away.

How does one escape a blackhole?

Was it _possible?_

Hermione didn't know, but she knew she had to try.

For, in all of the various points of her relationship with Draco, even when they were especially destructive, there was never a point where he touched her that she felt quite like _this_. As Tom's hands roamed further up her thigh, and his lips further down her exposed décolletage, Hermione felt… _dirty._ It felt wrong. It all felt very, very _wrong_.

Until Hermione couldn't take it anymore.

She wrangled herself free of Tom's embrace, muttering incoherently, and tripped over her own feet. Cursing herself, Hermione struggled to her feet. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of the papers that fell from Tom's desk. She hadn't intended to pry but one page caught her eye. She had less than a second to make a decision so, Hermione acted on instincts. Her hand reached out to close around the paper –

"What are you doing?"

Hermione straightened up, pulling her skirt down and re-clasping not only her tights, but also her blouse. "Nothing," she assured him, plastering what was hopefully a convincing smile across her lips. "I just – I realized – Draco is expecting me. I have to go, or he'll be suspicious. That's – That's all, Tom."

He stared at her, and Hermione willed her pulse to slow, knowing he would be studying her most minute reactions – ones she could not fake so easily, or at all.

"Alright," he finally ruled. "You're sure everything is fine?"

Hermione nodded, chewing on her bottom lip and shrugging on her coat. "I just – I don't want him to catch us, you know…" She waved her arm lamely, stepping backwards toward the door. "I'll – Err – See you around, then, Tom?"

He nodded; his jaw clenched and blue eyes blazing into her.

No sooner did Hermione emerge into the relative safety of the corridor did she see Draco step out of his office at the other end. He halted mid-step and blinked. "I was just coming to look for you. It's quite late – I didn't realize." Apparently, that was all he planned on saying because he turned on his heel and ducked back into his office without another word or acknowledgement toward her. Hermione sighed, stuffed the stolen papers in her inner lining coat pocket, and traipsed down the hall into Draco's office.

They walked in silence through the empty halls of Westminster to the car.

As they descended the steps outside the main entrance, Hermione felt the hairs prick at the base of her neck and peered nervously around in the darkness. Something felt… off.

"Draco, I think - " No sooner than that thought crept across her mind, pricking at her senses, did the night light up in a white blaze. "_Draco!_" She screamed. Hermione immediately ducked, attempting to do the impossible and dodge the incoming bullets.

"_Hermione!_"

Draco's hand shot out, wrapped around her waist and pulled her toward him. His body shielded her as he slid his revolver out from its gun strap and aimed it into the darkness. "Come out!" He shouted. The white lights were gone, though, and those responsible with them. It all happened so quickly, but it was over now. Draco refused to accept that, "You bloody _cowards!_ Come out! _Come out!_ Show your fucking faces, you cowards!"

"Draco," Hermione croaked.

Her head throbbed anew. Each breath was labored and ached; her ribs could barely expand against the insurmountable pressure on her chest. Then, there was the fact that despite the warm London evening, her fingers and toes were frozen and numb. None of these were good signs. Hermione lifted her arm to try and take her pulse, to better assess the irreversible damage – well, she _tried _to lift her arm. It wouldn't move. Another bad sign.

_Fuck._

"Draco," she repeated, desperate to steer his attention toward her. "For fucks sake," she swore, her head bobbing against his shoulder as it got thicker and heavier. Her vision swam. "Draco, look at me." Finally, he did. His slate grey eyes pulled her focus towards them, blurring out everything else. "Hospital," she whispered.

"What? No," he shook his head, "Absolutely not. We can't - "

"We _can_," she insisted with the last of the energy she could muster. "We – were shot at – in public – we're known figures – it's _fine_," she huffed. Her lungs burned with every breath.

Something warm trailed down the side of her face and for a moment Hermione feared she sustained a head injury, but then she caught a glimpse of Draco's hand in her peripheral vision. He had stowed the gun to caress her, and his other hand tightened its grip around her waist. Hermione's head bobbed again.

"Alright," he choked out, swallowing hard. "Alright, fine. Yes. We'll go. We'll go to the hospital – just – stay with me? Alright, _stay with me_." Hermione felt herself leave the ground; her vision swarmed and sent her spiraling. Rather than succumb to the new wave of nausea at being carried, Hermione dutifully shut her eyes and leaned into Draco's chest, inhaling him and using it to anchor herself to the present. "We're almost there," he murmured, cupping her cheek with his palm while he veered recklessly through the empty streets with the other. "Stay with me, Hermione. Don't you dare fucking leave me now."

"Who is the sun?" She mumbled incoherently. "Is it you or is it me?"

The car screeched as the tires burned against the asphalt at the entrance to the emergency department. "Hermione, please. Stay with me." He said, and once again, Hermione was lifted, spinning and spiraling.

"_Mine_ – I forgot – Why you? – _Inevitable_ – Puzzling and inevitable," slipped from between her trembling lips. Everything was cold. It was so, so cold. She wanted to curl up and sleep. The scent of Draco was comforting, perhaps she could just put her head down and sleep for a minute –

"Hey," Draco's voice sounded, piercing through her fuzzy state momentarily. "Stay with me, Hermione. Don't you dare leave me now. _Don't you dare_," He paused, huffed, then everything got very bright again. "Help! Someone! My – Err – She needs help, she's been shot. Please, I need her –_Please_,"

"Lord Malfoy," came an unfamiliar male voice somewhere to her left. "Calm down. You need to let her go, so we can treat her." A pause, then louder, "GSW – Get an operating theatre ready, _stat_ – Female – She's lost a lot of blood – Lord Malfoy, you need to let her go,"

"I can't,"

"We need to operate, Lord Malfoy, you have to – We need to take her, now, or she'll continue to bleed out – Fuck, I can't even see how many bullets there are – _Let her go,_"

"I - "

Hermione couldn't make out anything else before the blackness encapsulated her.

* * *

There was a vague sense of falling; amidst a dream-like state, Hermione had the impression that her body was suspended but slowly descending which was utterly disorienting. She couldn't actually _feel_ her body, which was more confounding. It was as if she didn't exist outside of her consciousness and she suspected in some strange, abstract thought process she _didn't_ exist outside of her consciousness (something, most likely, Luna Lovegood would preach).

Her mind, however, was hardly at its full potential.

It was singed; each intake of new information was a loose fragment, and her brain struggled to connect them. It was futile, she was sure, but the predisposition to make sense of her world was ingrained too deeply to attempt otherwise. With her world succumbed to a black numbness (not unlike a blackhole; the irony of that did _not_ escape her) all Hermione could rely on was her sense of hearing.

"Lord Malfoy? You can see her now," some shuffling, a deep inhale, and then, "It was touch and go for a while. The injury was quite extensive. Luckily, she did make it through with what we believe to be no irreparable damage to her vital organs or any others."

"But – How is she?"

_Draco_, her brain informed her.

"We'll monitor her closely, and she'll be here for a while, I'm afraid. But – I don't want to say anything that might mislead you - "

"Then don't." Clipped and sharp. He was fuming. "Do you have a telephone I can use?"

"Downstairs," replied the calm, monotonous voice. "Ask the receptionist and she'll glad you show you where it is." A moment of silence, followed by, "She can't have visitors, yet."

"Why not?"

_Don't be rude, Draco,_ she wanted to scold him, _They are only trying to help. Besides, this will do nothing to help your publicity. _

"It's protocol," insisted the other voice, sounding slightly on edge now. "We need to be able to monitor her closely. She's not completely out of the woods yet, Lord Malfoy, and visitors will only – Err – It would make our job of keeping her alive very difficult."

"Fine." A heavy, exasperated sigh. "Is that all?" No audible response, the healer must have nodded. "Lovely, please leave us."

"We'll be back throughout the next few days to check on her progress until she's out of the woods. Once the doctor has given you the all clear, then we can move her out of the intensive care unit and into a more comfortable suite for the rest of her stay. Any visitors will be welcome then, so long as they abide by hospital rules."

"Understood."

A pause, then more shuffling. There was a faint creak, as if a door was only half-shut. "Goodnight, Lord Malfoy. I do hope you are able to get some shut eye before our morning rounds." There was a more definite thud as the door shut.

Another exhale; this time much closer to where Hermione must be.

"Fucking hell, Hermione," sighed Draco. She imagined his disapproving grimace ordinarily paired with the statement. "You never learn, do you? I don't know why you won't stay away from me, but I am so fucking glad that you won't. I know that's horrible, but as it is, I probably already have a special place reserved for myself in Hell and if you don't stay away from me, then what I am expected to do? Fuck knows I can't stay away from you."

Hermione yearned for one of her other senses; she wanted to touch him – comfort him with a gentle caress – or to see him and lose herself in the sparkling silver of his eyes.

Suddenly, her consciousness darkened and swam; her thoughts returned to a state of confusion and chaos. She did, luckily, catch a few more words slip from between Draco's lips as she drifted into sleep again.

"I know I have no right – no fucking right – to ask this, but please stay with me. Don't leave me, Hermione."

* * *

"What _happened?_"

With the shriek of a new voice entering her senses, Hermione struggled to place where she was and what was happening. Evidently, it was a fair question all around. Her conscious was still sore and frazzled; the intake and processing of information was about all it seemed her brain was currently capable of which proved infuriating for attempting to orient herself. However, there was a new development that was, on the one hand, a sign that her recovery was most likely moving in the right direction and, on the other hand, explicitly unwelcome.

Everything _hurt_.

Her entire body was sensitive and ached with any touch or movement. While part of her was aware that someone was holding her hand to comfort her, as well as themselves, the other part of her wanted to scream at them to please _stop touching her_. Everything was raw; her sense of touch, previously deprived (for fuck knows how long) of connections, was now hot as a live wire and burned at the smallest input.

With every breath, her lungs constricted and stretched against sore muscles and throbbing bones.

"_Well?_" The voice prompted; Hermione registered it with a painful lurch as belonging to Astoria. "Also, why didn't they let us see her earlier? It's been _days_, Draco, and your incredibly infrequent phone calls were not sufficient when Rita bloody Skeeter is constantly releasing rubbish articles about what _she thinks_ transpired. So, what the fuck happened?"

"Firstly," he said, sounding irritable and tired, "I am not to blame for that. It's hospital protocol that no visitors are allowed in the intensive care units. Personally, I think it's fucked up but…" He trailed off, and Hermione's hand burned anew as he must have taken up holding it again.

"Don't be rude, Draco," chided another feminine voice – Narcissa. "They are only trying to help and berating them will do nothing to help your the way, it was a brilliant idea to take her to a hospital in the first place."

"The nurses and doctors agree," he replied. "They say she's lucky enough to have made it from Westminster to the operating table without bleeding out. I wouldn't say that's fucking luck, but who am I to judge?"

Astoria added her assent, "I can't even _think_ about what good it would have done to bring her back to the Manor. We can dig out a few bullets and patch up some nasty wounds, but _this? _This was far out of our league. It was definitely a good call."

"It was her idea, actually," Draco corrected.

There was a subtle cough. "I meant it was a brilliant idea because of the _press_," clarified Narcissa. "But those are good points, too." A low chuckle escaped her lips, and Hermione could practically feel the smug expression Narcissa was giving her; pursed rouge lips, pale narrowed eyes and accentuated cheekbones. "Even minutes from death, Granger still outwits us all. It'll be a pity if she doesn't make it," she remarked. "She was growing on me." A weighty pause, followed by, "Don't you dare fucking tell her that."

"Noted," quipped Astoria drily. "Really, though, what the bloody hell happened?" she went on, clearly addressing Draco as he was the only one among them withholding the truth of the situation.

"Rita fucking nailed it, actually," Draco replied. "For once in her life."

A soft grunt from Narcissa, then, "Of all bloody times."

"Shit," exhaled Astoria. "What happens now?" Hermione's other hand was immediately doused in fire. _Fucking hell_, she groaned internally. "Obviously, we're going to hunt down and kill these fuckers, right? I mean – Fuck the judicial system and all that. If we do it correctly - "

"Using our New Order allegiance, you mean?" Cut in Narcissa.

"Yes, clearly." Astoria sniffed. "I can run the initial investigation. We both know I'm the best at gathering information without being noticed. Besides, I'm growing bored with these missing boy cases, Draco. They ran away – it _happens_. Let me track down the motherfuckers who did this to her and I _promise_ I will leave at least one for you." A pause. "The best one. Come _on_. Gathering intel is what I do best so, let me do that. Let me be useful."

There was an audible sigh, followed by the sweet relief of Hermione's hands being lifted from the searing fire; they let go of her.

"Fine. But you have to report back everything to me. No going rogue, understood?"

"Yes, yes, fine. I'll tell you everything." Astoria promised.

There was a repetitive noise that must have been Draco impatiently tapping his foot against the tiled flooring. "You're going to do whatever you want, aren't you?"

"Yep,"

* * *

"Draco, you look shite."

_Theo,_ Hermione mused inwardly, _definitely Theo._

"Thanks," came Draco's drawled response.

"Hey, don't mention it." Theo quipped in return. "Seriously, though, why don't you go back to the Manor? You could definitely use a better wash-up than whatever you're getting here. Plus, that decade old armchair is doing absolutely _nothing_ for your posture. How do you expect to run the bloody Death Eaters with a hunchback, hm?"

"For the love of God," groaned another male voice. _Harry_, she realized happily. "Shut up, Nott."

"For once, I agree with Potter. Shut up, Nott."

A disgruntled scoff emanated from somewhere to Hermione's right. This semi-state of consciousness, she felt a bit more alert of her surroundings and her body. It was still raw and painful, but at least her other senses seemed to be functioning properly, picking up the gap her vision left. A dark thought twisted in the base of her skull, prompting Hermione to fear her vision may never come back. Quickly, she shoved that foreboding possibility aside.

"Draco," Theo said again, earning an exasperated sigh from the other man, "Go the fuck home. Honestly, the nurses are complaining. I'm sure at this point it's actually detrimental to Granger's health for you to still be here - "

"Fuck, _fine_." Draco snapped. "I'll go if you just shut the fuck _up_."

"Deal, done." Theo replied hastily. Hermione guessed he wore an exceptionally smug grin. "Go."

"I'll be back in a few hours, and if you _dare_ pull any of your usual shenanigans, Nott, I swear to fuck - "

"When have I _ever _\- "

"Nott," growled Draco warningly.

"For fuck's sake," muttered Theo. His footsteps echoed as he moved across the room and settled beside Hermione, presumably literally taking Draco's place.

"Don't worry," input Harry, "I'll be here to oversee everything. She's in good hands."

"That's hardly reassuring, Potter, and I sincerely doubt that's true. Nevertheless, Theo's right, I have to go. Just – Don't touch anything – Try not to burn the hospital down – No harassing the nurses - "

"What about - " Theo started.

"_Or_ the doctors," Draco interrupted. He paused, "Or the other patients, or anyone. Just – Leave everyone alone and don't do _anything_ until I get back." His footsteps receded along with muttered obscenities just before a loud boom echoed, alerting Hermione that the door had slammed shut behind him.

"Thank _fuck_," exhaled Theo. "I love Draco, but he needed a break. This whole _not leaving her side_ thing was clearly starting to get to him." There was a bit more shuffling, followed by what Hermione could only imagine to be Harry sitting at the foot of her hospital cot. "What?" Theo prompted, referring to an expression on Harry's face that Hermione could (obviously) not see.

"You love Draco, huh?"

"Oh, fuck off, Potter. You know I love you, too."

A low chuckle. "I know. I just like hearing you say it."

"You mean you like _making_ me say it." Theo corrected in his notorious matter-of-fact tone. It was infuriating mostly because it was accurate in that, usually, he was right.

"Same difference," sniffed Harry. He adjusted his position to rest a hand on one of Hermione's shins. This time, it didn't send jarring spikes of burning pain up her nervous system, to her immense relief. "Also, why did you say that about Malfoy like it was a bad thing? Are you saying that if _I _ever ended up in Hermione's situation, or one like it, that you _would_ leave my side?"

A drawn-out groan.

"No," countered Theo. "That's not at all what I meant. It was a fucking joke, Harry," he said, almost pleading with his partner, "So, will you just – Oh, you fucking _prick_ – You know I hate it when you do that. Fuck, I fall for it every time." Suddenly Theo's finger was tracing funny shapes along Hermione's upper arm. "If you _were_ in the same situation as Granger," he went on. "I don't know what I would do."

There was a beat of silence.

"I would like to think I would have hunted whoever was responsible down by now. Made them pay. Take my time with their deaths and make them wish they'd never been born in the first place." Theo murmured. "Then again, I don't think I would risk leaving for one second in case something happened because…" A deep inhale and exhale. "Because you _are_ my fucking life, Harry. Literally. If something happened to you – I don't – I can't even think about it."

"I know," replied Harry softly. "I know, Theo. I feel that way, too."

"Fuck you," sniffed Theo, obviously wiping away snot or tears – or both. "You make me so fucking soft, Potter."

"_And_ hard," added Harry.

A choke on laughter. "God, that was fucking _horrible_. Don't quit your day-job, Potter." He paused, gathered himself together, then continued. "Speaking of your day-job, any updates?"

"Well…"

Hermione never heard what Harry told Theo because the familiar pull of darkness beckoned to her once more. This time, she greeted it like an old friend and wondered what new development in her recovery process would awaken when she did next.

* * *

The first thing Hermione noticed was instead of an abyss of blackness, her vision swarmed with a steel slate grey. She blinked, registering that her sight had returned; through the blurriness, she could just make out a golden halo floating just above the grey. She stirred, testing her sore muscles and was relieved to find that, although still throbbing with pain, it was a manageable, predictable pain.

"Draco," she croaked, testing her voice for the first time in who knows how long. "What happened?"

He inhaled sharply, fully coming into focus as he loomed over her in the hospital cot. He was sitting beside her, propping his hands on either side of her face. "Hey," he greeted. His lips formed a thin line, and behind him the bleak twilight slowly morphed into a bright, orange sunrise. Hermione shifted to cover her eyes from the incoming harsh light, but Draco was quick to stop her from moving. "Don't move just yet. You're still fragile, I'm afraid. Healer says you're going to be in a world of pain, but I'll go convince the nurse to increase your morphine drip now that you're awake."

He began to sit up, but Hermione moaned her opposition.

"No," she murmured. "Don't go yet. I – I want to know what happened."

"I – I don't - "

"Please," she begged. Her memory was fine, she believed, but it was still foggy what actually happened to her body; she knew they had been shot at, and that she had taken a few bullets, but no more than that. "Tell me."

Draco sighed.

"You are impossibly stubborn." He sat back down on the cot, then looked out the window rather than meet her imploring gaze. "We were ambushed leaving Westminster. I'm still not sure _who_ is responsible, but I promise you they won't escape their fate. I can't wait to rip - "

"Draco," she sighed, cutting off his tangent.

"Right. Well," he cleared his throat. "I was probably the intended target, but they missed me entirely. You, though, you – There was a lot of blood. I lost my mind for a bit, then you insisted on going to the hospital. It was a good call, but at the time I – I was a mess. I didn't want to – Anyway," he shifted, still not meeting her eye, instead staring at his pristine leather shoes.

Hermione took in his appearance.

He wore exquisite clothing, as he always did, and she had no doubt that each piece cost more than the average Englishman's monthly income – perhaps, yearly even. That didn't seem to matter to Draco as he clearly treated his attire with less than his usual attention. Rather than having a three-piece suit with every time piece, button, and clasp perfectly placed to give him an air of authority and wealth, he opted for a simple oxford and trouser with both wrinkled. The top three buttons of his oxford were even undone, giving Hermione a glimpse at the tiny golden chest hairs that gleamed in the morning light.

Draco looked effortlessly handsome.

"They took you away from me," he said, continuing on with the story. "I didn't hear anything for a while. Then, _finally_," he choked on a low chuckle; a sad exhale of relief, "they let me see you. The doctor says you sustained a lot of internal bleeding."

He told her what the doctor relayed, almost verbatim, which was comforting to Hermione in a way that she hadn't quite expected. She supposed it might have been because her extremely logical, calculated brain could make better sense of what happened based on the extent of her injuries.

Hermione had suffered three gunshot wounds to her abdominal region.

The massive damage led the doctors to believe Hermione had not been shot _just_ with a typical, low-energy pistol bullet. A low-energy pistol bullet would give up its energy fairly rapidly once it makes contact with its target; if it hits muscle, for example – like it did with her left external oblique muscle – it causes some laceration of the tissue.

Two of the bullets that hit Hermione were low-energy pistol bullets. The first was the one that tore through her muscle; alone, it would not have caused irreparable damage and her recovery time would be much less than in reality. The second bullet lodged itself in her inferior phrenic artery; it would have been difficult to remove without inflicting further damage, but since it was _not_ a through-and-through, it ended up helping her in the long run but not tearing through the artery.

A _high-energy, high-velocity _bullet from a semi-automatic rifle, however, causes extensive injury into the organ it hits. As the velocity of a bullet is doubled, the energy it releases upon impact is quadrupled – Einstein's theory of relativity can be applied here. When a high-energy, high-velocity rifle bullet hits a target, then the bullet tends to tumble inside the body. If such a bullet hits an organ such as the liver, for example, which is enclosed in a capsule, then it can literally blow the liver apart.

This is what happened to Hermione.

It was the entire reason Hermione nearly lost her life (again). The right lobe of her liver had been shot to pieces and there was a huge tear in her diaphragm. The profuse bleeding from one of her hepatic veins was the reason for all of her blood loss and is what made it difficult for the surgeons to locate and stop the bleeding.

It was touch and go.

From repairing her diaphragm and liver – miraculously given what was left – to suturing every hole in her arteries, veins, nerves and muscles, Hermione survived.

"I thought I was going to lose you," admitted Draco.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond reflexively and reassure him that it was fine, she was recovering well and would be out of here before they knew it. But then she caught the twitch at the corner of his eyes. He didn't mean physically – well, perhaps, he did but he also meant it another way.

"The way we're going you just might," she confessed.

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair before meeting her eye again. "I just – I don't know what to do. I still care about you – _I do._ But every time I look at your or talk to you, I can't help but wonder who you are. Which memories were real, and which were an illusion? Which parts of you were Penny, and which parts were Hermione?"

Hermione licked her lips.

She wanted to make this work, and she could see in the tension of his shoulders that he did, too. Besides, hadn't her dalliance with Tom only _proved_ just how much she wanted to be with Draco? She knew she would choose him; fate would choose them.

"Then ask me," she said, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen between them. "Ask me. I promise I will answer honestly, but you have to give me your word you won't use this against me. If you were serious about caring for me, and not wanting to lose me, then you have to swear to me, Draco. Swear you won't punish me." She exhaled loudly. "I have had quite enough of that from you."

"I know," he lamented. "I don't know who I was last year. It felt like I was an empty shell. A man with no soul, just a body. I didn't know who I was – what I wanted – what to do with you – and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Hermione."

She hesitated for two breaths, then nodded.

Not forgiven – yet – but understood.

"Ask me," she repeated. "Why don't we start lightly, hm?"

He shifted, toying with his hands, then mumbled, "Your birthday," he recalled. "You said it was the fourteenth of September."

"Penny's was," Hermione replied. "I was aware of your knowledge and connections before I went undercover. At the time, I hadn't fully understood just how extensive both were, but…" She trailed off, shrugging. "To be safe, I gave a fake birthday when Theo asked."

"Your actual birthday is the nineteenth of September," Draco recited. "Still a Virgo, then?"

Hermione bit back a laugh; her abdomen reared in pain at the motion. "Yes. That's true."

Draco contemplated his next question. His grey eyes scanned her face, seeming to study it. Hermione wondered if she'd suffered and facial lacerations but discarded the concern for the gleam in Draco's silvery gaze. He'd thought of another one. "Your car," he began. "When Theo and I first saw you – When I first met you. Was that a ploy this whole time?"

Again, Hermione stifled a laugh.

"Yes and no. It was Shacklebolt's intention for me to get hired by your company and spy on you from the inside. Penny was supposed to be a skilled assistant with an impressive resume, including driving. I, however," she gave him a soft smile, "am extremely _un_skilled at driving. I couldn't start the car. Neither of us could have predicted _you _would be the one to rescue me. Thanks for that," she added with a cheeky grin.

Draco's lips curved into a pleasant half-smile. "No problem," he remarked.

And so, it went on. He asked her various details of their previous life – as Penny and Draco – and she answered him as truthfully as she could. That is, until, Draco asked his final question. At this point, he had shifted to lay beside her on the bed; it was risky in that they both knew the morning rounds were taking place by now and a nurse could walk in on them any second. It was thrilling, she supposed, how they both felt like guilty teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

"Hermione," Draco murmured tentatively. "Was any of it ever real? Did you love me – Do you still?"

A bitter taste formed on the tip of her tongue.

"That's not a fair question."

* * *

**A/N - **I am _so _sorry for the late update! I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy during this pandemic. Luckily, it means I will have much more time to write (and now that I have fully developed the plot, it will update frequently). I know I said this before, but this time I mean it lol! Thank you again for all of your wonderful reviews and support for this story! PS - the complete playlist is now available at the bottom of my page :)

The title of this chapter comes from Drake's song _Headlines_ from the lines _tuck my napkin in my shirt, cause I'm just mobbin' like that / you know good and well that you don't want a problem like that / you gon' make someone around me catch a body like that _xx


	4. Fingers Crossed

**Chapter 4: Fingers Crossed**

* * *

_7 May 1929_

_WEDDING OF THE DECADE: _

_THE LOVE STORY OF MISS GRANGER AND LORD MALFOY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_In the beginning of their relationship, it can be seen that Miss Granger struggled with her new role in the spotlight if you look closely enough at her appearance. This is understandable, of course, for someone who was not groomed for the circumstance they find themselves in. However, since coming forward with their relationship, Miss Granger has blossomed into a beacon of hope for all young aspiring women. _

Can you feel how infuriated Rita is at having to write that last sentence about me? I'm quite certain it nearly killed her to do it – which is a shame because I would much have preferred it actually have killed her.

Oh well, we can't always get what we want.

_Miss Granger's _Forbes _cover in the autumn of 1928 is enough proof that, despite her early missteps in the public eye, she is more than ready for the role of Lady Malfoy that lies ahead for her. There are several instances in particular in which I believe, as a nation, we were floored by the poise and elegance displayed by the future wife of our beloved Lord Draco Malfoy – all of which can be told through the dress she wore for each occasion. _

_The first dress is, of course, the one mentioned a bit earlier – the iconic emerald gown, a custom by Miss Daphne Greengrass, was worn when Miss Granger stepped out for the first time as Lord Malfoy's wife-to-be! The choice of emerald fabric was clearly a nod to the future House of Malfoy with which Miss Granger would be joining. _

_The second dress was a beautiful periwinkle number. Its innovative chiffon fabric was loose and freeing, which encapsulate the symbolism of the moment perfectly. A drop waist, giving way for the openly tiered, flouncy skirt that was even – in part – translucent! While the dress alone might have perhaps been viewed as racy, especially given the circumstances in which it was worn, when paired with white kitten gloves, strings of pearls, and a stylish periwinkle cloche hat to hide her lack of bob hairstyle. Miss Granger wore this unique day dress the day she was released from the hospital following the attack on both her and Lord Malfoy in the spring of 1926._

_The third dress was worn as Miss Granger was, conversely, rushed _into _hospital two years later. Her appearance as well as her attire left the nation in quite a mess – neither giving a clue as to what her fate would be. This dress, a custom Chanel shift dress, was as enigmatic and intriguing as the woman who wore it at the time. Its late summer style of white linen with pops of pretty pink and bright blue hydrangeas stirred a lot of controversy over the next few days. Tomorrow, for the first time in a year, we will get a glimpse at the outcome – will the wedding feature the addition of a precious flower girl or an adorable ring bearer? _

_Tomorrow will be the most notable dress of all._

Oh, Rita.

I bet it hurt her to have to leave out the dresses I wore when she was accusing me of being an adulteress, getting my hands dirty with known riffraff (or, as I like to call them, the New Order), and generally being inadequate for Draco. I can't even begin to explain how many times I have seen my name in the _Daily Prophet _since me and Draco began "dating" and every instance – except for one – was bloody blasphemes.

It physically pained me to invite her to the wedding tomorrow, but I knew it would be far worse for her to be left outside of Westminster Abbey dreaming up a false turn of events.

Even though I am actually grateful that Rita didn't mention the dresses I wore during any of the _fucking several _times she accused me of being literal filth, I believe they do need to be discussed. For me, every instance she criticized in the press was a momentous occasion for me.

There was the stylish red dress-suit that was easily recognizable as I stepped out of the car and strode up towards Tom's mansion. Then, there was the olive fringe tweed knit dress that I absolutely destroyed when trying to uncover who was behind the missing boy cases. Finally, there was the floor-length yellow silk dress with tiny white gardenias patterned all over it that I wore when I was _actually_ getting engaged to Draco – a very different setting compared to the planned moment the rest of the world knows about.

It's bizarre, thinking back on all of the wonderful times Draco and I have shared as I read this absurd piece of shit article. It was a long fucking road to get to where we are now, and I sincerely hope tomorrow doesn't completely fuck it up.

Hey, God – if you exist, that is; I'm still skeptical – we deserve a happy ending, right?

Actually, don't answer that… I don't want to know.

As for our child being present tomorrow, within the vicinity of a vengeful Tom and a sniper – I _especially_ don't want to think about it. _Fuck._

* * *

_4 August 1926_

Hermione removed her cloche hat, pearls and kitten gloves, leaving them carelessly on the floor behind her as she crossed her room and collapsed on the bed. After spending ten long weeks in a hospital cot, her feather mattress felt like a cloud. She inhaled the lingering scent of lavender and smiled; she'd been collecting lavender from Narcissa's garden and been using its sleep-inducing scent to help her sleep through her withdrawals. After a while, it became more of a comfort than a necessity.

"You should take it easy," chimed Astoria's voice from the doorway. Hermione lifted her head and fixed her with an impatient glare. She'd already spent the entire ride home berating Draco into leaving her alone and had stormed straight to her room to avoid any other coddling. "I'm serious, Hermione. I know you think you're invincible - "

"Maybe I am," she cut in.

Astoria pursed her lips. "While I applaud the self-confidence, I implore you to think of the rest of us." She inhaled, then exhaled sharply. Hermione let the other woman lean down to press a warm kiss on her burning forehead. Astoria patted her curls, pushing them away from Hermione's face and shook her head softly. As she turned and headed for the door, she added, "I'm glad you are home."

"Me too," smiled Hermione.

With a flick of her ebony hair, Astoria and her attentive jade eyes left. Hermione exhaled, thankful for the first real minute of solitude in weeks. However, it didn't last long. She heard a subtle cough erupt from the doorway and sat up, expecting to have to lecture another bloody Death Eater into leaving her alone. Instead, she was greeted by a petite and doe eyed Winky.

"Winky is here to help Miss Granger prepare for bed," she dimpled. "Winky is very happy to see Miss Granger is home! Winky has missed her."

"I've missed you, too, Winky," Hermione assured her. And she had; there were a lot of silly things that Hermione had missed about Malfoy Manor.

Spending most of the summer away from it made her realize just how much she had come to think of it as home. Her morning and nightly routines with Winky were underappreciated before, but Hermione had no intention of letting that happen now that she was back. Her friends – who had come to resemble her family – were constantly in and out of the Manor, and she found solace in all of their interwoven lives.

Where there had once been mistrust and betrayal, now existed encouragement and loyalty.

Not at the very least, more than her real family. Hermione wasn't particularly close with her parents growing up; they were often preoccupied with their dental practice and their own academic achievements outside of it. They supported her, of course, but they also taught her to be independent and reliable on no one but herself. Since their move to Australia, Hermione's parents had been in contact with her roughly once a year. The first few years, their letters were intercepted by her old employment in order to protect her identity and the case.

Since then, though, there still wasn't frequent communication.

Draco, with good intentions and the approval of Hermione – albeit reluctantly – wrote to them during her extended stay in the hospital. He informed them that she was recovering, slowly but still, and that he and his family were doing everything in their power to take care of her and assure that the assailants would be dealt with accordingly.

Their response?

_Ok, thank you for letting us know. _

No hugs and kisses. No _Stay safe! We love you! Thank you for taking care of her! We miss you! Visit soon! _and so on. Nothing.

Draco had been slightly put off by their dry response, which had been a bit unexpected for Hermione. Then again, even Narcissa was a far more attentive and affectionate parent than either of them. It was almost comical, really, when Hermione had to pry the letter out of Draco's hands and reassure him that he did the right thing; that their response was not to be a reflection of _his_ character, but theirs. She supposed it was odd that she would be the one consoling him, but she hadn't expected any better of them.

That isn't to say she doesn't love her parents – because she does.

Just… Not for anything more than her biological drive to love those who share her bloodline. It wasn't personal, per se, merely logical.

Hermione drifted to sleep on the reassuring thought that she didn't need her parents because she grew into the young, powerful woman her younger self could have only dreamed of, and her family was _here_ in the Manor with her which was more than enough for Hermione. She slept peacefully with that on her mind, until she woke up to find it used against her.

She stirred, kicked the sheets and duvet off of her sweltering skin and rubbed her eyes to clear the morning sleep from her eyes. Hermione blinked. In the corner of the room, slumped and snoring in an armchair, was Draco. In the other corner sharing the wall with her bedroom door, Astoria was curled up, also asleep.

Hermione groaned.

Slipping silently off the bed, she crept to the other side of the room bearing two enormous pillows. Hermione tossed both of them simultaneously at Astoria and Draco, then shifted her hands to her hips and scowled as both of them woke up with a jolt.

"What the bloody hell do you two think you're doing?" She bellowed.

"We – Err – Well," mumbled Astoria, cracking her back as she stood. "Why does it matter what we're doing?"

"What does it _matter?_" Repeated Hermione, aghast. "Because you're in _my room_, and I was _sleeping_. Does that not strike either of you as creepy?" She paused as they exchanged a vacant expression, simultaneously returning their gaze to Hermione's and shrugging nonchalantly. "Unbelievable," Hermione exhaled.

"We were only trying to protect you," retorted Astoria, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Oh, yeah?" Hermione countered. She gestured to both of them and went on, "Well, thank you very much. I feel _so _well protected with both of you sleeping on your watch! What good that does me – even if I did need protecting. Which I don't," she sniffed.

Draco's head immediately snapped to the side; he regarded Astoria suspiciously. "You were supposed to be on watch last," he said. "It was your turn."

"No," argued Astoria, grimacing. "It was _your_ turn."

He opened his mouth to give a smartass retort, Hermione was sure, then promptly closed it and blinked. "It might have been my turn," he muttered, unhappy about the confession.

"Brilliant," sighed Hermione. "Thank you both very much, now get the fuck out."

Suddenly, the door opened to reveal Harry and Theo, both holding steaming cups of tea and plenty of chocolate biscuits – one of which Draco stole from Theo. They both halted as soon as they registered the tension in the room, and Theo's eyes fell on Hermione, widening at the sight of her as if he hadn't expected to see her in her own bedroom. More likely, she thought, he hadn't expected to see her _awake_.

Proving her point, Harry blurted out, "I thought you said we were supposed to leave before she got up? Has that changed now?"

"Bloody hell," muttered Astoria at the same time Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a few expletives. "Thank you, Potter," input Draco, "for not only being late to your shift, but for also outing us to her."

"Whoa," Theo remarked, taking a languid sip of his tea. "That's definitely not _our_ fault." – "I said, Potter, didn't I?" – "Same thing," said Theo. "By the looks of it, you two messed that part up so, don't come after us for your failure."

"Well, it's hardly _my_ failure," added Astoria with pursed lips, glancing pointedly at Draco.

"Now hold on a fucking second, Greengrass - "

"Enough!" Hermione shouted, growing tired of watching them all argue. She sank down at the end of her bed and hid a wince as her abdomen flexed painfully. "Will all of you drop this nonsense? I do _not_ need to be babysat, and I definitely don't need to be treated like fine china. I'm not going to bloody break, alright?" She glared at all of them until their chins dropped. Then, in a kinder tone, she added, "Would any of you be doing this if it had been anyone else?"

Theo shrugged. "Narcissa would certainly have done it if it were Draco." He quipped.

Hermione launched a pillow at him, which he avoided expertly, causing it to strike Harry in the arm; his teacup fell to the floor and shattered on the hardwood. "Sorry, Harry," mumbled Hermione, feeling slightly guilty. "I'll make you a new one, come on," and she led the rest of them out of her bedroom and toward the dining room.

"Oh," chimed Theo, "There's probably something you should know."

"What's that?"

"Since you've been away, there's been - "

"What the _fuck_ is she doing here?" Hermione screeched, coming to a halt in the entryway of the dining room upon seeing a haunting head of blonde curls in front of her.

"Yeah," Theo chuckled, shooting Draco a taunting smirk behind her back, "That."

* * *

"It's about fucking time they let you out of that blasted hospital," commented Luna with a sidelong smirk.

Hermione tentatively took a seat across from her.

"The healers wanted to keep an eye on my recovery, for good measure - "

"Oh, you misunderstand, Miss Granger." Luna cut in. Her teeth bared slightly as her lips curved into a sickly-sweet smile. "I wasn't fucking referring to the healers." Her gaze shifted to Draco and Astoria on either side of Hermione pointedly, then returned to hers with a knowing glint. Hermione hesitated, digesting the accusation with a bitter taste on her tongue. However, moments later, Luna began attempting to stack her bread-soldiers in the form of a pyramid, having abandoned her boiled eggs.

"Ignore her," muttered Astoria, reaching across Hermione for the teapot and filling both their cups. "She's a bloody lunatic. It's very fitting actually, her name, and makes complete sense as to why her gang has the reputation they do."

Hermione pursed her lips, unsure what to make of that. "Since when did you speak out so plainly against other women? Particularly in our field of work," she noted.

Astoria stilled. "Are you telling me she hasn't given you any reason to think she's a few pieces short of a chess board?"

Hermione grimaced. She didn't want to disagree with Astoria; for one thing, she'd certainly witnessed more than one occasion where Luna had been less than perfectly lucid or reasonable. Then again, she didn't want to disagree with Astoria, either. She knew perfectly well that just because Luna may see or say things that didn't make much sense didn't necessarily mean she wasn't brilliant.

Nevertheless, it didn't explain why she was there at the Manor eating breakfast with all of them.

"What the hell is she doing here?" She hissed to Draco. Their relationship had been somewhat more stable since her hospitalization; trust was still a far way away, but at the very least they were able to talk to each without verbal assaults. "And the Three Stooges," she added under her breath.

"Extra protection," Draco replied stiffly, avoiding her stare in favor of carefully selecting something to eat. Hermione, exasperated, spooned a selection of fresh fruit, two boiled eggs, and lightly buttered toast for both she and him. His lip curled slightly, "What the hell do you think you're doing? I can make my own bloody breakfast." To prove his point, Draco reached out to scoop up some fatty bacon and ham slices. "_Ouch_," he hissed, retracting the hand that Hermione had just slapped.

"Your cholesterol was worse than mine when the doctor checked our vitals, Draco," she chided, nodding to his healthier breakfast. "Watch what you eat, or you'll die of a heart attack rather than in a blaze of glory, bullets and blood like you want to."

"How do you know _that_ is how I want to go out, Granger?" Draco remarked.

"Because I know you," she replied, rolling her eyes when he wasn't looking. "Now, are you going to tell me what the hell _Luna Lovegood_ is doing here or what?"

"I told you," he said, pouting at the fruit and begrudgingly popping a strawberry in his mouth. He dabbed his serviette at the corners of his perpetually downturned mouth. "She and her – What did you call them?"

"Three Stooges," she offered at a whisper in case they overheard her.

"Oh, yes," he chuckled under his breath. "Them. Right, well, they were hired as a security detail, so to speak. Safety in numbers," he supplied.

Suddenly, Hermione glanced around the room; when she had walked in earlier, something was off, but now what exactly that had been was evident. There were too many people – more than usual.

The dining room was exceptionally busy that morning, and not only with the usual Malfoy Manor miscreants. Scar Joe, Handsome James, and Muscles McGee were talking idly in the corner over some pieces of toast and fruit. Dobby was dutifully running in and out from the kitchen with refills of eggs, buttered toasts, Welsh cakes, and other foods that were becoming rapidly scarce thanks to Greg and Vince. Astonishingly, they were accompanied by their female counterparts, Emmeline on one side and Millie on the other with a toddler on her lap.

Hermione was taken completely by surprise. Ordinarily, the wives and girlfriends who were not directly Death Eaters – or somewhere in limbo like herself and Astoria – did not spend too much time at the Manor. They definitely did not sit around for meals with children on their laps.

Scanning the room further, Hermione noticed that Emmeline and Millie were not the only two loved ones present that weren't normally present. Opposite Greg and Vince sat Graham and Malcolm, as they often did, but on the far end of the dining table also sat Marietta and Graham's oldest son. The other three children were playing on the floor in the corner, apparently done with their breakfast. Malcolm sat next to Luna, and both leaned in close to discuss something Hermione very much wanted to hear. Instead, she had to listen to the constant bickering of Draco and Astoria on either side of her.

Theo leaned over Harry in his chair, but their conversation seemed far more intimate than suspicious, so Hermione didn't spend another breath trying to eavesdrop. It didn't matter, anyway, because soon enough her attention was directed elsewhere as Narcissa stepped into the room with Pansy and Daphne on her heels.

"Hermione," she said, voice clipped. Hermione looked up, meeting the woman's pale eyes and slid out of her chair at the curl of Narcissa's finger, beckoning her to come. The four women traipsed out of the noisy dining room and into a smaller, calmer office upstairs.

Hermione blinked, noticing the few personal items on the desk.

A golden locket, a tiny key chain black horse – the very one Hermione bought for Narcissa a few summers ago – and a framed photograph of Draco in full military ensemble, medals and all.

"This is your office," remarked Hermione.

"Yes," confirmed Narcissa. "Excellent deduction skills," she added drily.

"I thought your office was downstairs, across from Draco's," huffed Hermione, irritated at being ridiculed like a self-absorbed teenager. "We were there just before – Did you move?"

"No," non-answered Narcissa.

Pansy sighed, dropping into one of the two chairs facing Narcissa's desk and said, "She has two offices, Hermione. I know you've been out of commission for a few weeks but do try and keep up. Its exceedingly tiresome to have to explain everything to you."

Daphne rolled her eyes, "Pans, that's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"No," Pansy sniffed.

"Anyway," snapped Narcissa, directing the conversation back to the matter at hand. "I called you in here, Hermione, for a reason. That reason being that you are no longer suitable to assist me in my workload with Malfoy Company Limited. Pansy," she said, flicking her cigarette toward the smug, raven-haired beauty, "will take your place as COO."

Hermione stiffened. "Alright," she replied between gritted teeth.

Narcissa stared at her. "Aren't you going to ask _why_?"

"I'm told I ask too many bloody questions," she shrugged. "It's not like you would answer me unless you wanted me to know anyway. And if you did want me to know, then I expect you'll tell me so, why bother wasting my breath?"

"Ah, too true," mused Narcissa. "Well, as it so happens, this _is _one of the rare occasions that I would like you to be informed." Hermione raised her brow expectantly during Narcissa's pause. "Pansy will be taking over your role – your workload – as COO, this is true, but she won't be able to publicly do so. In other words," she went on, catching the furrowed brows on Hermione's face. "The rest of the nation will still believe it is you who holds the title and does the work."

Hermione shut her eyes, then snapped them open again; they were bloodshot.

"Why?" she sighed.

"Because," Narcissa answered, narrowing her eyes. "We can't be seen as weak, as shifting our board members so readily and so often. If it were to be common knowledge that Pansy were to step up in your place, then that would be the third shift in management in less than eighteen months. Other companies will begin to take stock of such things, and we cannot have that." She exhaled several rings of smoke. "Besides, the nation – despite Rita's constant efforts – does actually like you. They may adore Pansy and Daphne as well, undoubtedly, but that doesn't mean they want to see any of you in a predominately male role. It's unnerving to the weak-minded."

Hermione conceded with a silent nod to Narcissa, then turned to Pansy. "You're alright with this?"

"Are you genuinely asking me that question?" She grunted. "Personally, I'm growing extremely irate with all of my humanitarian work and can't wait to finally do something else, especially since it pertains to the family business. Besides, Daph is more than capable of handling both our workloads since Hannah completely took over one of their projects."

"I meant," Hermione said softly but sternly, "Are you alright with not taking the credit for any of the work you do – for having to hide behind _my _name?"

Pansy blinked.

Her face contorted into an expression which Hermione didn't see too often, especially not on Pansy: humility.

"Yes," she said, clearing her throat and painting a scornful expression across her features. "Of course, I'm fine with it. Why wouldn't I be?" Not giving Hermione a chance to further press her on the subject, Pansy spun around in her chair to face Narcissa behind the desk.

"Is that all?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," nodded Narcissa. "That is all. Oh – There is one more thing," she said, stopping Hermione from leaving her office. "You will need to find a project to preoccupy yourself with in order to prevent yourself from falling back on some of your less-desirable habits." Her pale eyes glinted, and Hermione fought the urge to make a smart retort. "At least, Hermione," she added, "You don't have to worry about picking anything the public can demonize. Whatever you choose to do won't be known to anyone outside the Manor."

Hermione nodded her assent, then left the room without another word, leaving the three women to their work.

She wondered if, perhaps, the last sentiment Narcissa had said was intended to spark ingenuity in Hermione for a particular project Narcissa had in mind? Similarly, for instance, with the types of projects _Astoria _typically got involved with. Chewing on that food for thought, Hermione made her way back to the dining room, eager to steal a banana or piece of toast and a cup of tea before Dobby cleared everything out.

Successful in her endeavors, Hermione stepped into the main sitting room to see Draco, Malcolm and Luna discussing something fervently. "Oh, how fucking lovely," trilled Luna, clasping her hands and grinning mischievously at Hermione. "I was wondering when the fuck you were going to join us." She patted Malcolm on the back harshly, then affectionately. "I was just telling Malfoy what a fucking terrible idea it would be to send me with just this lad to keep me company."

Draco groaned.

"Lovegood," he growled, "She's not going. I told you that already, and I loathe repeating myself."

She tutted dispassionately. "Oh, Malfoy. Your threatening little speeches fucking don't intimidate me." Luna directed her attention back at Hermione, gesturing to the loveseat across from her; she reluctantly took a seat, eying Draco leaning against the hearth and Malcolm sprawled out on another sofa. "I want to know what you fucking think, Miss Granger," Luna said. "Care to join us?"

"In what?" Hermione asked cautiously.

"The Carrows," said Malcolm. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and balancing his smug expression in his palms. "We're going to take them down and claim their racing territory. It's brilliant, and I bet there'll be tons of blood and - "

"Shut up, Malcolm," snapped Draco. "I told you, your job is to be the ghost. Daphne will be the honeypot and Lovegood and her goons will do the dirty work." His dark, stormy gaze shifted again to Luna. The mischievous grin still spread widely across her face; Hermione admired how much this woman didn't give a fuck, even if it was mildly disturbing. "Keep him out of the fighting. I mean it, Lovegood."

"Yeah, yeah," she replied, waving her hand the same way she waved away his concerns. "Fucking noted, Malfoy. Baby Flint will be _fine_, though he would be even better if I said someone else with me… Say, a bright, bushy-haired - "

"_No_."

Luna laughed, a maniacal and yet eerily beautiful laugh, then crossed and uncrossed her legs pointedly ignoring the daggers he sent her way.

"Worth a fucking try," she shrugged, winking at Hermione.

Hermione, meanwhile, sat dumbstruck. She'd known they had been plotting something for some time now, but she was never sure as to what it was. Until Malcolm mentioned the Carrows, Hermione hadn't the slightest clue. Alecto and Amycus Carrow were typical familial mobsters, not unlike the Malfoys, especially since their family also came from wealth; their family money, from what Hermione deducted, was not as old or well-endowed, therefore preventing them from appearing in high society as Draco and Narcissa did. Instead, they terrorized Croydon, in the far southern outskirts of the city.

"Why wage a war against the Carrows if we don't need to?" She pressed, arching her brow at Draco.

He stared back, unblinking, for several long moments. Then, he crossed the room to one of the bar carts and poured himself a tall glass of whiskey from one of the crystal decanters. "We do need to," he informed her. Draco took a large gulp, hissed as the fiery liquor burned the back of his throat, then went on. "The Carrows think they can take Kensington from us, and from there, I have no doubt they will attempt to take Ascot as well. With a sizeable amount of our income from betting shops, we can't afford to _not_ engage them in war."

"You sound so sure we'll win," she remarked drily. "How can you be so sure about that? Their affinity for violence precedes them, Draco."

"So does ours," he shrugged.

He had a point, but Hermione wasn't quite done arguing her case.

"You know we can't risk being seen involved in any criminal activity. Not only will it interfere with the bills you want to pass, but it could very well eradicate any future for you in Parliament – or any form of government. It would tarnish the family name and business as well." She said.

"Which is why _I_ will be not be the face of the attack," he countered with a smirk creeping over the corners of his mouth.

Hermione frowned. "The last time you said something like that, it didn't exactly go according to plan." She muttered under her breath, noticing the exchanged glances between Draco, Luna and Malcolm.

"What was that?" Malcolm asked, catching the end of her mutterings.

"Nothing," she grumbled, standing up and exhaling loudly. "Carry on with your war, then. By all means, I want nothing to do with it." She paused, glancing over her shoulder and catching the three of them resuming their huddle, filled with hushed conversation. Plotting. "Don't come crying to me when someone else gets hurt, or worse…" Hermione mumbled to herself, exiting the room.

* * *

"What's going on?" Hermione shouted, stumbling out of her position by the library window to see Harry running through the halls. Just a few moments ago, she had seen Theo approach Draco in the garden, whisper something into his ear, and then the two of them tore off toward the Manor. "What happened? Is everyone ok?"

Harry came to a halt before her; from the flash of guilt behind his emerald eyes, Hermione could tell he didn't want to share with her whatever it was he knew.

"Spit it out, Harry, for fuck's sake," she huffed.

"More boys from one of the orphanages went missing," he said.

"There's something else," she noted, blocking his path toward the grand staircase and effectively stopping him from leaving the Manor to go trailing after either Theo and the Death Eaters or Ron and the New Order. "What is it? What aren't you telling me?"

"There were more than usual, this time," he sighed. Harry chewed his lip, then shifted to move past her. "I need to go help Ron," Harry said. "They're gathering people to storm on Camden."

"They have a lead?" Hermione gasped.

Harry nodded.

"I'm coming."

"Whoa," Harry said, yanking free of her grip. "No, you're not."

"Yes, I am, Harry. You _owe_ me."

He groaned, throwing his hands in the air and gesturing wildly to her abdomen. "Hermione, you're still healing! Malfoy – Fuck – The whole bloody Death Eater gang will kill me if you get hurt on my watch." He shook his head, turning to head down the main staircase. "Absolutely not, I like my head where it is, _thank you very much_."

"I won't get hurt," she insisted, trailing behind him. "Harry, it's been _fucking_ months. I'm fine. I'll be fine. I can take care of myself, and besides, you need me, and you know it. If there's new intel from Camden, and if more boys from the Death Eater orphanages are gone, then I'll be able to provide information your beloved New Order don't have. That is, unless, you'd rather take Narcissa or Pansy?"

Harry grimaced.

"You owe me," she repeated, sensing his resolve thinning.

Hermione could see the internal battle flashing angrily behind his eyes, curled into his fists, and in the tension of his trapezoids. "Fine," he huffed. "Fine, you can come. Just – Don't do anything stupid, alright? The last thing I need is to be worried about my head _and_ yours, where evidently the fate of mine lies."

"Deal." Hermione grinned wickedly.

There was a lot of commotion coming from the hallway downstairs that was home to Draco's study; from the shrieks and clanging – bullets being loaded into pistols and blades being sharpened – she expected half of the household to emerge ready to storm on Camden Town as well. Knowing full well that any of them would object to her involvement, and with more authority than Harry, she quickly devised a plan to stall them.

Hermione grabbed Harry by the arm and took him through the garage, avoiding half of the added security Draco had stationed around the Manor in the past month, and sprinted through the side door onto the lawns. On the far eastern side of the property were the horse stables; she selected a Pinto that she had always had a soft spot for since Draco retired her from racing, and Harry climbed onto his trusty Clydesdale.

"Bloody hell," muttered Harry, bringing his horse – named Buckbeak – to a halt on the edge of the Manor. They were planning on slipping out of the front drive, then ducking through the woods surrounding the Manor before anyone had seen them. For both of their sakes, it was best if the Death Eaters were not involved. "There's no way we're going to beat them to Camden on horseback," he said, gesturing to where the others had gathered around the half-dozen cars.

"Don't worry," Hermione replied, pulling the reigns on Crookshanks and shifting to hold them in one hand. "They won't be able to follow us." She held up six shiny car keys and smirked askance at Harry.

"They could always go on horseback, like us," countered Harry, nodding behind them to the barn as they took off at a gallop.

"They won't," assured Hermione, wincing at the sudden jerking of her body as Crookshanks picked up speed. Her wounds may have healed, but they were still subject to pain with certain movements. "I mean, they could, there's definitely more than enough horses to go around, and they all know how to ride. However," she huffed, narrowly avoiding a mud puddle only to get splashed by Harry riding right over it, "I may have sabotaged the saddles. I doubt anyone other than Draco, Theo, Greg and Vince know how to ride bareback, and they won't be stupid enough to run off with just the four of them."

Harry laughed, "You realize we're talking about Theo, right?"

"True," she allowed, joining in the laughter.

The laughter died out, of course, as the two of them skirted through the dirty streets toward one of the New Order safehouses just outside of Camden Market. The air was still, quiet; the streets, ordinarily packed with locals buying produce, trading goods, and children playing games, were deserted. Hermione led Crookshanks into a side alley, tied her up, whispered reassurances in her ear as she stroked her soft, spotted face, then left a few carrots to reward her for the journey. Harry did the same with Buckbeak.

The two of them entered the safehouse from its side door, wincing as the creak of the metal door swinging open rebounded through the empty streets, echoing and alerting anyone listening closely to their whereabouts. Suddenly, the gravity of the situation sank into Hermione's bloodstream; rather than fight the nervous anxiety, though, she allowed it to feed into her adrenaline and give her an exceptional buzz. The high of the danger; the thrill of the chase.

It was what she lived for.

"Good. You're here," Ginny said when she and Harry stepped into the small kitchen. There were a few others gathered around, but no more than a seven. She recognized all of them and was glad to see none of the elder Order members were among them. "Harry, where is the London Police in all of this?"

"They're keeping an eye on the orphanages from afar. There's no case for them yet because although Malfoy has raised concerns for them, the wardens in charge felt that there was no foul play. Apparently, orphaned children disappear all the time," he replied. The muscles in his arms stiffened, and Hermione was abruptly reminded that Harry _was_ an orphan.

She brushed her pinky against his clenched fist.

"We have to be quiet," Ginny ruled. "If the coppers are keeping an eye on the situation but not actively involved, then we can't use Harry's position to our advantage. Instead, it'll have to be more of a stealth operation." She met Hermione's eye; there was a fire, a glint of anger resonating behind the rich blue of her eyes. "We believe the boys have, in fact, been kidnapped – or otherwise persuaded to run away."

Hermione bit down on her lip, then nodded, waiting for the pin to drop.

"I've been surveying the area for a few months now, and in all that time, I have only ever seen one man fit the description." Supplied the younger Diggory – Cedric, she recalled – crossing his arms over his broad chest. "There were definitely some other men with him, but it was unclear if they were the missing boys or not."

"How many are missing now – in total?" Hermione asked, glancing around.

"Fifteen," said one of the Weasley twins amidst the silence that followed her question. Hermione was still trying to learn which was which, but she was fairly certain he was Fred.

"Bloody tragic," said maybe George, possibly Fred.

"How can someone can do that," went on most likely Fred.

"Is beyond me," finished almost definitely George, but still possibly Fred, with a deep frown contorting his dirty, freckled face.

"He must be trying to build his gang," added Cho Chang, a tiny, beautiful woman to Hermione's right. She leaned her head on Cedric's shoulder and cursed under his breath. "I can't believe he's even capable of this level of violence provided his upbringing. His father is practically a fucking hero," she hissed.

"We should know better than most that public reputation doesn't necessarily mean anything," grumbled Ron, not bothering to hide his glare toward Hermione. "For all we know, his father _is _as much of a fucking snake as he is."

"Who the hell are we even talking about?" Hermione snapped, irate at not being fully in the know. She expected them to ignore her and bully her for asking too many questions, but to her complete astonishment, they didn't.

Ginny sighed. "Barty Crouch," she said, then at Hermione's shocked expression, added, "Junior."

Still, Hermione was surprised. She knew Barty Crouch Senior's reputation and had even spoken to him on more than one occasion as he was part of the bourgeoise that she and Draco had recently joined. He was the Speaker of the House; it would be incredibly enigmatic – and shameful – for his son to be involved in the kidnappings of young orphaned boys, especially if it was gang affiliated.

"Cedric, Amos and Cho," Ginny went on, gesturing to the three of them and drawing a line of advance on the kitchen counter with her finger, "You three take the front entrance, and on your signal the rest of us will enter the house. Macmillan, Fred, George, and I will enter from the rear entrance. Harry and Ron, you two take the side entrance. Understood?"

Everyone nodded their assent, except for Hermione.

"Wait a bloody second," she barked, chasing after Ginny as everyone readied themselves for the invasion. "What about me? I'm an asset. I can fight – I know a lot about these boys, and Crouch - "

"I'm sure you do." Ginny replied, sparing Hermione a tired grimace. "I know perfectly well you can fight, Granger, and I'm not at all surprised that you would know intimate details about the boys under the care of your boyfriend's enterprise." Hermione opened her mouth to correct Ginny about her use of the term _boyfriend_ when referring to Draco (they weren't quite there yet, though she wasn't exactly sure _where_ it was that they were), but Ginny cut her off, holding up a hand. "I also know that your social status places you quite frequently in the vicinity of Barty Crouch Senior." She cocked her revolver, spinning it to ensure every bullet was in place, then slid it into her trousers. "Did it ever occur to you that your profoundly recognizable presence in the press will put us all in danger if Barty Crouch Junior recognizes you?"

Hermione frowned, unwilling to admit the other woman had a point.

"It won't matter if he recognizes me if we kill the bastard. Dead men tell no tales," she quipped.

Ginny's lips pursed. "Nor do dead women, Granger. Stay here."

"Remember, everyone," came Harry's voice from across the room, holding his own gun in the air and placing the bullets in each revolver slot pointedly. "Save the last bullet for yourself." He tucked an extra bullet in the pocket over his chest.

Hermione caught his arm, preventing him from joining the others from gathering around Ron for a last-minute pep-talk. "What do you mean by that? Save the last bullet for yourself – What the hell?"

Harry's face fell; his lips pressed into a thin line. "It's from the war," he admitted. A flash of pain and sadness shone behind the brilliant emerald green of his eyes. "It's a tactic we're taught because it's far better to choose your own fate than to let the opposition capture you and decide your fate for you. It was originally to protect yourself from being tortured into revealing information to the enemy."

"Oh," Hermione murmured, unable to say more than that. It was appalling and foreboding, but she supposed in some twisted way, it made sense.

Ron made a grunting sort of noise and the group dispersed. Without another word, Ginny led the others out of the safehouse and across the street to one of the many terraced houses. Harry was the only one to glance back, offering her a small shrug of his shoulders in condolences. Though, of course, Hermione had zero intention of staying put and following orders, especially from _Ginny Weasley _of all bloody people.

She glanced around the abandoned building, scouring the tables and cupboards for any weapons they may have left behind. There were none. Brilliant.

"Looks like I'll have to do this the old-fashioned way," she muttered under her breath, glancing down as her fingers curled into her palm, forming two miniscule fists.

Hermione watched from a gap in the tattered curtains as the others stormed into the house, followed by immediate gunfire and shouting. She launched herself across the street, ducking around corners until she heard a noise. There was muffled fighting, and then suddenly, "_It's a fucking trap! Get down, get down!_" from what was unmistakably Ron's timbered voice.

There was a loud explosion, and Hermione was thrown back against the opposite wall with an unearthly force; the ringing in her ears echoed painfully, blocking out any other noise around her. Slowly, her vision corrected itself, putting the scene before her back into focus; the walls that had once existed had been blown apart, debris and dust coated her lungs. Hermione hacked and wheezed, struggling to pull herself to her feet.

Her muscles buzzed; the adrenaline was running full speed through her veins.

A bomb had gone off.

Miraculously, Hermione only suffered minor cuts and was otherwise unharmed. Covered in soot, blood and dirt, she stumbled through the ruins to find the others. Not all of them had been so lucky as to avoid fatal injuries. Amongst the rubble, Hermione saw a horrible sight; the elder Diggory – the father – was kneeling over his son and bellowing between heaving, racking sobs.

"My son… My _boy_… No, no, no…"

Cedric Diggory was dead, as was the young girl beside him.

Hermione stifled a sob, swallowing the bile rising in her throat as she noticed a devastating detail about their lifeless bodies. Twisted, bloodied, and with half of their limbs blown off, the young Diggory and Chang's remaining fingers were intertwined. She stumbled backwards and tripped over yet another body. Three of them, actually.

Two were unrecognizable, and must have belonged to Crouch's petty organization, but the last face belonged to that of a kind-faced, cheerful young man Hermione knew to belong to their side. Macmillan, she recalled moments before emptying her stomach contents on a pile of brick and mortar to her left.

The twins emerged from one side of the remains of the house to announce that Crouch was nowhere to be seen. He must have gotten away before the bomb detonated. They immediately crouched down beside Diggory and attempted to pull him away from his son, reasoning with him that there was nothing more they could do. They had to leave. Ron and Harry stepped forward, the latter cupping a hand around Hermione's elbow and helping her up.

Fueled by unbelievable rage, she spun on him. "What a bloody _waste_,"

"The fucker got away," hissed Ron, equally frustrated and anger.

"We'll get him," Harry assured them both, fists clenched, and emerald eyes narrowed sharply.

"That's not what I meant," snapped Hermione. She groaned, slamming her fists against one of the few standing walls. "They weren't even _here_. Look around – See any evidence of the missing _fifteen_ fucking boys? Because I don't." She wiped away the tears welling in her eyes and stomped furiously away. "I have to go," she growled as Harry shifted to follow her. "I have to leave before - "

"Before Malfoy sees you?" Harry guessed, coming to an abrupt halt.

"Too late for that, I'm afraid." Draco's voice caused Hermione's head to snap up from her wrecked olive tweed knit dress to meet cold, steel grey eyes. "I admire your efforts to keep me away from this mayhem, Hermione, I really do. It keeps me on my toes." From the icy tone in his voice, however, Hermione could tell Draco was not at all pleased by her so-called efforts. "Hiding the car keys was a nice touch."

"I didn't hide them." Hermione replied effortlessly. It wasn't technically a lie, though Draco saw right through that particular play on semantics.

"Stole them, then," he shrugged, gesturing behind him to where Theo and Astoria were crossing the street from where they parked the car. "Clever, but futile. You must have forgotten how handy Theo and I can be with our hands when necessary."

"You hotwired your own car," she scoffed, hiding a laugh. She _had_ forgotten about that pesky talent of theirs. "You realize your presence here will only make matters worse once the press arrives, don't you? I doubt it would be good for you to be seen at a building that was just imploded by a homemade bomb, killing several inside." Hermione challenged, not daring to look away from his steel gaze.

"Why ever not? I think it would make _excellent_ news for a man to be seen making an effort to locate the missing boys of one of his own holdings outside the grubby office scene. Frankly, it's heroic. You, however, look an utter mess. _Your_ appearance here, Hermione, _will_ be questionable. Especially to Rita."

"_I've been gone one bloody day_," shrieked Astoria as she stormed up to Hermione and Harry, brandishing a manicured nail at the former. "One bloody day, and this is what happens? You go gallivanting around with the New Order and decide to – What? – relive the good old days? For fuck's sake, Hermione, you look _terrible_."

"Get her out of here before the press arrives, then," grumbled Theo, shooting daggers toward Potter, who only glared back defiantly.

"Come on," Astoria insisted, dragging Hermione away and calling over her shoulder for Draco to join. "We have to get back to the Manor before anyone suspects either of you had anything to do with this."

"I'm going to stay," Theo said, nodding toward the rubble. "They could use some help with the clean-up and - " He cut himself off, clearing his throat, but all of them heard what wasn't said. It was only Harry, curling his dirty fingers into a fist, that voiced it.

"And the dead."

* * *

As it turns out, the New Order had a member, Colin Creevey, who worked for the _Daily Prophet_. This proved exceptionally useful during the coverage of the bombing, and any follow-up investigation (under wraps, of course) pertaining to the whereabouts of Barty Crouch Junior. The residence that had been blown to pieces had belonged to him, but where he was now, nobody knew. Not even his father, Barty Crouch Senior, who gave a short speech over a BBC radio broadcast relaying the tragic events. He painted his son as the recipient of a violent act of terrorism, and he used the public's sympathy to further his political agenda.

While Hermione _may_ have, at one point, agreed with the anti-terrorism bill, she now questioned its humanitarianism; it no longer sounded genuine.

A prickling feeling in the back of her mind told her not to trust either Barty Crouch and a muffled conversation with Harry and Theo in the Manor following the broadcast let her know where both of their heads lie. Harry, relying on a sickly feeling in his gut, believed the corruption may go deeper than they first thought. Theo, on the same wavelength, added that the explosion could have been a set-up to destroy and evidence, and to generate public sympathy quickly before the deadline for the bill to pass.

Hermione sighed.

Often, in the evenings, her mind wandered to Draco. Where he was, what he was doing, and if he would be back from Westminster any time soon – and _safely_. There was still no news about the attack on either of them; all that they were able to discover was the make of the guns based on the bullet fragments dug out of her. They were military-grade, both the pistol and the semi-automatic rifle, which unnerved everyone. The Death Eaters knew, first-hand, how difficult it was to acquire such weaponry, even with the right contacts.

"You don't think the coppers had anything to do with this, do you?" Theo prompted, nudging Harry a few weeks later. When the evening conversation came to a lull, the next topic was most likely about either of their unsolved open cases. "Blaise already reached out to his contacts, and Draco spoke to Scabior and any others on his payroll, but - "

"No," cut in Harry with a deep frown. "I don't think so. My gut tells me it's not them."

"Oh, you're gut told you that?" Pansy mocked, sipping at a golden whiskey; she tipped the crystal glass to her ruby red lips, taking another languid sip, then added, "Potter, how many times have you listened to that proverbial gut of yours and _still_ nearly gotten yourself killed?"

"My guess would be about five times," said Astoria with a smirk, "this week."

"Shut up," snapped Harry, exasperated. Hermione sank further in her armchair by the fireplace, eager to drown out their bickering. Daphne, meeting her eye from the chair opposite her, seemed to think the same thing; they both rolled their eyes.

"What do you think?" Daphne murmured.

Hermione shrugged. She didn't know what to think, and she was tired of thinking; it was exhausting. The same fucking issues were coursing through her mind, over and over and _over_ again. Who shot at her and Draco? _Why_ did they do it? Was it political – involving the bill he was trying to pass in the House? Or, was it personal – perhaps, involving his role as a Death Eater? Were they even aiming for _him_?

Then, there were the mind-boggling questions regarding the missing boys. Where were they? Did Crouch hide them somewhere else before the bombing? Was he even the one responsible? Was there someone he worked for? Was it his _father_? Or, is there someone else they haven't had the pleasure of meeting yet?

Over and over and _over_.

Like a carousel ride Hermione could not get off of, no matter how much she tried.

Then, there was the added stress of living under the same bloody roof as a madwoman. Luna had become slightly more unhinged since the plot to eradicate the Carrows from the racing tracks; although the Death Eaters income would be the primary benefit from the absence of the Carrows, Luna also stood to gain a substantial amount from the deal. One of her many business avenues – not unlike that of Draco's – was betting shops and fixing races to her benefit. With the Carrows out of the way, she would become one of the largest betting enterprises in England; second only to the Death Eaters.

Hermione thought that was, perhaps, _more_ reason not to trust her, because now not only were they the only thing standing in her way of becoming the largest enterprise – increasing her income significantly, especially with them out of the way – but also, she knew exactly how they operated. It made her very uneasy around Luna.

Of course, everyone was uneasy around Luna these days.

The plot against the Carrows – as Hermione rightfully predicted – had not gone according to plan. Luckily, this time, it didn't result in Malcolm taking another bullet. Instead, he had been reprimanded by one of the Carrows lackeys and been held at gunpoint until Luna caught up to them. She was faced with a moral dilemma: chase after the Carrows and leave Malcolm for dead (destroying any chance at whatever her absurd deal was with Draco) or save Malcolm and let the Carrows get away. Luna, per her unpredictable personality, found a third option.

She threw a blade at the man holding Malcolm in a chokehold, causing him to loosen his grip and dig the serrated blade out of his hand. Luna, apparently, told Malcolm to "Fuck off and get on with it," before racing after the Carrows. As they drove off, Luna made an impossible shot; the bullet hit Amycus Carrow between the eyes.

However, Alecto Carrow had been the getaway driver and, although her brother had just been killed, sped off.

"She'll go into fucking hiding now," muttered Luna, swirling her gin around her glass and watching the liquid whirl around, splashing onto her fingers. "She'll go into fucking hiding until she finds the opportune moment to resurface and come after me. She'll want fucking revenge for her brother." Luna shook her head, meeting Hermione's wide eyes.

It was late, one evening, and Hermione couldn't sleep. Rather than toss and turn for hours, she opted to give up and go down to the kitchen and try and secure a midnight snack. The waft of gin was too tempting, though, and she quickly turned to leave.

In the darkness, though, Luna's golden hair caught her attention. For a second, she thought it was Draco, and was thoroughly disappointed when it wasn't. Once Luna had seen her there was no leaving. Hermione was subject to her midnight speech.

"Alecto is as clever as a fox," she noted, tipping her glass toward Hermione. "You would fucking outwit her, though, I bet. Fucking hell. In fact, I think you know far more than even _you_ realize. I bet you know fucking everything – everything is fucking connected, you know." She laughed, piercing the silence of the dark kitchen. "Of course, you fucking know. You're Hermione fucking Granger."

She paused, hopped off the kitchen counter and strode up to Hermione, narrowing her big, blue eyes at her. Luna's voice dropped to a whisper.

"Tell me," she said, circling Hermione, "the more you fucking take away, the bigger I fucking get – What am I?"

"I – I don't - "

"Yes, you do," interrupted Luna.

"The more you _fucking take away_, the bigger I _fucking get_. What – Am – I?"

"Listen, it's late, Luna. You've been drinking. I don't want to play your games - "

"_What the fuck am I?_" She hissed, circling Hermione faster. "You know, Granger. I know you bloody know. The more you fucking take away, the bigger I - "

"A hole!" Hermione screamed, irate. She breathed heavily, regarding Luna with a piercing glare. "A bloody hole," she repeated, at a lower volume. Luna's blue eyes glinted, and a mischievous grin spread across her lips.

"About bloody time, Miss Granger," she replied, teetering off into the night.

Hermione blinked.

"She's out of her fucking mind," muttered Hermione to herself, foregoing the idea of a snack and returning to bed.

* * *

Before long, the bleak midwinter was upon them. There was a distinct cinnamon scent in every corner of the Manor; the gardens were covered in a lovely blanket of snow that had fallen all season – unusual but not entirely unwelcome; spirits were honestly a bit low despite the cheery holiday season, but that was nothing Theo felt his cynical humor could not cure. He gathered everyone who stayed in the Manor for Christmas (which luckily did _not _include Luna and her Three Stooges) around the large entertainment table in one of the upstairs sitting rooms for a game he liked to call _Which Rapscallion Done It?_ It was a glorified guessing game, designed to bring laughter to most at the cost of a few.

Everyone loved it.

Hermione, who had _not_ been drinking loads of cinnamon firewhiskey or peppermint mules, did not find it nearly as entertaining as the others did, but she admitted it provided a good laugh. There were only a few of them present this Christmas, but anyone in the Death Eater family could be a possible answer.

Theo, the host, read from a card, then whomever guessed the subject of the card correctly, won the card. The person with the most cards collected at the end of the game would be announced the winner. Harry, as Theo's partner in more than just crime, was the equivalent of a showgirl. It was quite a sight.

"Next one!" Theo said, flashing a card along with a wicked grin. "Category is Lying Bastards." Hermione shifted uncomfortably; she'd been the subject more than once in the category, and while the others had been arguably fair, she figured it was only a matter of time before a serious Penny one was made. "This person lied about their relationship with the enemy until they were quite literally held at gun point."

"That has to be Hermione, right?" Astoria guessed. She took one of Hermione's hands in her own and squeezed it; a private apology for bringing her name up. "Didn't you all say Draco had a gun to her head the first night they met?"

"Nope!" Theo declared. "Hermione never lied about her relationship with Draco, only who she was," he smirked at her, pointing a finger gun playfully and nearly tripped over the rug in the process. Hermione stifled her laugh into her next sip of tea.

"My son, then," speculated Narcissa, exhaling several rings of smoke into the air above her head. "Conversely lying about Hermione until that bastard Shacklebolt had him."

"Also, wrong," smiled Theo, triumphant with his tricky card. "Draco _also_ didn't lie about his relationship with Hermione. He may have hidden it from the press, but he never outright lied."

"Then, who - " Draco began, but was cut off by Harry loudly gasping and stumbling to his feet to take the card from Theo's hand.

"It was you!" Harry announced, smirking at Theo. "You lied about us to the Death Eaters until Draco nearly blew your head off!"

"Correct," beamed Theo. "Well done, Potter. Took you long enough," he sniffed. "Honestly, you call yourself a copper," he added, shaking his head. "Bloody rotter."

There was a bit of an uproar amongst those taking the game seriously. The others merely chuckled and passed the biscuit tray around; Hermione selected a chocolate wafer. Theo quickly moved on, and the next three cards were quickly won by Draco, strengthening his lead over the others (The first was about someone who had pulled a muscle in a dangerous sex position yet still managed to finish, which was about Graham in the Sex Freaks category; the second was about someone who had a weapon on them at all times that one would never presume was actually a weapon, which was about Astoria in the Sly Piece of Shite category; the third was about someone who, when handling a rifle for the first time, tripped and shot their best mate, which was Vince in the Hopeless Bloody Git category).

"Alright! Last one," Theo announced, selecting the final card. "Category is Cheating Motherfuckers."

Astoria, who sat between Hermione and Wood on one of the larger loveseats, leaned forward. She was highly competitive, and this category was worth the most of all of them, meaning if she could guess the subject of the card correctly, then she would surpass Draco for the lead. Narcissa, however, who lounged in an armchair on Hermione's other side, was also tied for second. The rest of them were doing pitiful and were hardly competing this late in the night; Pansy and Daphne were cuddling under a wool blanket in the corner by the hearth and not paying attention at all anymore, and Blaise was drowning his losing streak in several shots he lined up for he and Wood (they had grown quite close this past year).

"Ok, here it is," Theo went on, winking at Harry, "This person cheated death the most, surpassing the previous contender to the point where even _I _stopped counting how many times that they actually escaped death when they decidedly should not have."

"Draco," scoffed Astoria. "Obviously."

Theo shook his head, "Amazingly no."

"Fucking Potter, then," supplied Draco, gesturing toward Harry with his lit cigarette. "Isn't he known as the _Chosen One _for precisely that reason?"

"You know," mused Theo, glancing at Harry. "That's true. You should really rethink that stupid nickname of yours, Potter, it no longer suits you." Harry grimaced, tossing a crumpled-up card at Theo, who ducked it and blew a kiss in his direction. "But no, it's not Potter. I'll give you a clue, Draco was the previous contender."

"Granger," Narcissa said.

"Yes?" Hermione replied, turning to face the other woman.

"No," Narcissa sighed, pursing her lips and flicking her white and jet-black hair over her shoulders. "_You_, Granger, are the answer. You've certainly cheated death more than the rest of us, even Draco."

"Correct!" Theo cheered. Harry took the proffered card and shifted to hand it to Narcissa; she took it from him with the swiftness of a viper strike. "Narcissa wins!"

"Rightfully so," sniffed Narcissa, grinning smugly around the room.

Hermione blinked; she certainly _felt_ like the cheated death often, but she had no idea it was so much to the point that Theo had lost count. A warm hand wrapped around her calf, and she looked down to see Draco – who had been lounging on the floor, resting his head between Astoria and Hermione's legs – patting her reassuringly. He winked, then offered her a small smile. Hermione felt her chest tighten. She smiled weakly back.

At the end of the night, or early hours of the morning, more accurately, everyone started dispersing throughout the Manor, stumbling off toward their bedrooms.

Wood carried Astoria away, muttering Scottish nonsense in her ear and chuckling at how irritated she became the less she could understand him. Blaise, conveniently, lived next door so he crawled to bed. Narcissa didn't hesitate to wake Dobby for some food, and Pansy and Daphne woke just in time to hear, "Chips," and ran off after Narcissa and Dobby for the promised potatoes. Which left Hermione and Draco alone in the room.

"Hermione," he said, stuffing his hands in hit trouser pockets, "Do you have a minute?" He quickly added, "To talk," after correctly registering the nervous expression across her face.

"I – Yes," she replied, nodding. They both awkwardly stood there for an additional minute, but the tension in the air was so thick, Hermione couldn't cope with it anymore. She swallowed a lump at the back of her throat, then flicked her wrist toward the door, "Should we go somewhere, or shut the door…?"

"We can – Err – I mean – My bedroom is just around the corner, if you want to - "

"Oh, right,"

"You don't have to, of course. If it makes you uncomfortable - "

"No, it's fine - "

"We can go somewhere else. Really, it won't be long - "

"Draco," Hermione sighed. "It's fine, really. Let's go." He nodded mutely, then led them out of the sitting room and down the dimly lit corridor. Hermione followed silently behind him, glancing out of the windows lining the wall as they made a sharp right. The sun was only an hour or so from rising, judging by the deep blue of the night sky outside.

The minute Hermione crossed the threshold into Draco's bedroom, her body went rigid; she was torn by the onslaught of both wonderful and terrible memories of what ensued between them in this room. The very first time she had stepped into the room, it had been to calm Draco's shell shock fit; shortly afterwards, they shared their first kiss. Then, a few years later – to another white Christmas – Hermione had given in to her deepest desire to be trusted, valued and _loved_. Draco had loved her; of that she was certain. She had loved him, too. _Did she still?_ That was difficult to determine when her last memory in this room was when they had lost the baby.

She swept quickly at the tears forming in the corners of her eyes and cleared her throat. "What – Err – What was it that you wanted to talk about?" Hermione asked, shaking herself free of the memories and forcing her mind back to the present.

"Us."

"Oh," she replied dumbly.

Draco walked over to the edge of his bed, sitting on the edge, though it didn't seem like he was sitting at all; like a bird prepared to fly at any moment, perched and poised. He brushed the duvet beside him, inviting her without saying a word, and Hermione stilled. Draco looked so handsome with his hair falling into his face rather than being swept back, his eyes a sparkling silver despite not meeting her own, and body caved in, crouched, instead of puffed out with his usual amount of smugness and authority. He was handsome, and he was vulnerable; she was, too.

Slowly, Hermione shifted to sit beside him.

She, unlike him, crept fully up onto the mattress and tucked her knees under her chin. "So," she began, watching Draco reach for a cigarette and spark it, holding one out for her. Hermione took it, let him light it, and was thankful for the rush of nicotine into her lungs; the familiar scent of smoke filled her with a sense of calm and confidence. "What about us?"

"_Is_ there an 'us', Hermione?"

"I – I don't," she sighed. "I don't know, Draco. That's not fair. We were good, until we weren't anymore, and then we were bad – _really _bad. I just – I don't know how to overcome what we've been through. Since – Since the hospital, I know we've made an effort to talk – to be friendly – but I don't – Is that enough – to move on? Are we even _capable_ of moving on?"

"I don't see why not," Draco answered, toying with the cigarette between his fingers.

"You don't see why not," Hermione repeated, scoffing. "Of course, you don't. Because you always get what you bloody want, right?" Tired of _always_ ending up hurt, Hermione slid off the bed and headed for the door.

"Hey, wait," he said, pulling her back into the room and running a hand through his hair, exasperated. "I didn't mean it like it. I meant – We _should_ be capable of moving on from our past. I – I know _I _had a lot to do with our toxicity, that I was responsible for most of the mess we made, and I accept that. I'm _sorry_, Hermione. I am." He sighed, lightly tugging her back to the bed and sitting to face her.

"I needed space, at first," he continued, holding both her hands and her gaze. "I pushed you away because it was _easy_. I didn't want to have to think – to feel – to _anything_. I just wanted everything that hurt me to go away, and that was you. You hurt me. You lied to me - "

"_This again?_"

"No, wait – Let me finish," he pleaded. Hermione huffed, unhappy, then nodded. "You lied to me. I didn't know who you were. I didn't know if I'd fallen for you, or someone you made up to spy on me. I was _hurt_, but," he exhaled deeply, "that didn't give me the right to turn around and hurt you. For that, I am deeply sorry. I know I ruined this," Draco went on, "I know I reacted… _poorly_… after we lost the child. It was too much for me – losing you and the baby. I couldn't – I still can't - "

He broke off, swallowing a sob.

Hermione finally let the tension run off her shoulders; she lifted a hand from within his grasp to cup his cheek, rubbing her thumb along the sharp structure of his cheekbone. "Shh," she murmured. "I understand. I know – _Fuck_ – I _know_ how hard that was – I just – I wish you wouldn't have pushed me away. I needed you then, more than ever, Draco. I lost the baby. _Me _– I did that."

"No," he cut in briskly, eyes blazing. "That wasn't your fault. Don't blame yourself for that."

Hermione's face fell. "How can I not?" She whispered.

"_You_," he stressed, "are a strong, independent, and badass woman, Hermione Jean Granger. Don't you ever let anyone tell you otherwise, not even me. Do you understand? You, who are far too brave and clever for your own good, can do anything. You did not fail."

Hermione shook her head. "Penny was brave and strong and - "

"No, she wasn't. _You were_. Penny didn't even – she didn't really exist, alright? – It was you. It was always you. Hermione, _you_ are the woman I fell in love with. The woman I love still." His silver eyes scanned her face, desperate for comprehension. He shifted pulling her closer and tucking loose curls behind her ear. "I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. I don't care if you don't love me back, because my affection for you will never change. It never has. I know I was stupid and took advantage of your patience and generosity in the past, but that won't happen again. Ever."

"I - "

Hermione's throat was dry; she couldn't form the words even if she wanted to, but a quick shake of Draco's head cut off her attempt.

"Don't say it, yet. Not if you don't mean it."

She nodded, but a pit formed in her stomach, turning it upside down. Hermione wanted to cry; she wanted to break down and ugly cry, letting all of the pain and frustration out, but she couldn't. As pent up and distraught with emotion as she was, Hermione knew nothing would come even if she screamed and hid her face in her hands.

_Did she love him?_

This question had plagued her for longer than she would like to admit, and while it wasn't new, she felt that she was no closer to finding an answer than she was in the beginning. She wanted him; Hermione was quite sure she would always want Draco. Tom Riddle, of all people, had brought on that particular revelation. Since the realization, and subsequently the attack, there had been a distinct shift in their relationship; it was healthier and there was a clear vision of hope for a future, and even now, with his pretty words, Hermione could sense something changing between them.

Still… was it enough?

She wasn't sure if it would be enough – if their fate in one another equaled love, or if it was just a mutual belief that they had ruined themselves for anyone else. One thing Hermione _was_ sure of was that she wanted him, especially now, when he looked at her _like that_.

Hermione tucked her hand into his hair, admiring the soft golden strands as they slid between her fingers like silk. Her hand cupped the base of his neck, bringing his face closer to hers; closer and closer and _closer_, until his next breath was hot against her lips. A single movement – a single breath – was all they needed to close the space between them (physically speaking, of course).

Her nose nudged softly against his; their lips parted, existing _just_ out of reach, but enough for her to feel the electricity buzzing between them. Throwing caution to the wind and deciding – for once – not to _think_ about anything, or him. Hermione inhaled sharply, then brushed her lips against his. At first, it was hardly a kiss at all; almost experimental in nature, their lips sat still against one another, barely even touching. But then, the inevitable happened.

They both gave in.

He pulled her bottom lip between his, sucking lightly on it before releasing it to run his tongue along it; she slid her own tongue along his, deepening the kiss and pressing herself flat against him, diminishing any space that previously existed. It wasn't enough. He pulled her closer, tugging on her hair and tangling his hands within its monstrosity of curls, and then she was tumbling on top of him. He expertly rolled them over, pinning himself expertly above her; she bucked her hips up against his, desperate to feel his body flush against hers.

Hermione pushed back against him, forcing Draco to sit back on his knees. Her fists were clenched in the fabric of his shirt, which she released only in favor of letting her hands trail up his muscular abs instead. His skin was hot, searing and almost painful to touch, but she didn't care. He was her sun. _He was her sun_. Draco reached behind him and peeled the button-down shirt off his back, tossing it carelessly to the side and Hermione's eyes drew hungrily down his chest.

Without a moment's hesitation, she rid herself of her cashmere crewneck; before she could unclasp the bralette behind her back, Draco had lowered her back onto the mattress and begun trailing his lips down the side of her neck. His lips, tongue, and occasionally his teeth, left tiny love marks down her neck, her chest, all the way to her breasts. His tongue flicked over her nipple, causing her to dig her nails deeper into his skin, leaving red crescents all over his back, shoulders and biceps.

Lost in the feel of him – the familiarity, the nostalgia and the _warmth_ – Hermione nearly lost herself.

It was only the friction, his erection pressed against his trousers, rubbing against her highly sensitive cunt through her lifted skirt, that struck her like a bolt of lightning, bringing her to her senses.

"Wait," she gasped, and he immediately stopped what he was doing, lifting his head in alarm. "Wait, Draco, we can't."

"Oh," he muttered, "Right, sure."

Draco rolled off of her, but Hermione reached out to grasp his wrist before he went too far. "No – I – I don't mean – _I want to_," she assured him, rubbing small circles over his wrist bone and tugging him back towards her. "Trust me," she exhaled, "I want to. But – Well, last time we did this, especially when we were both hurting, it didn't – It wasn't good. In the long run." She clarified. "I want to, but - "

"But you want it to mean something?" He guessed. Hermione nodded, biting her lip. Draco's lips quirked into a ghost of a smile, then flattened. He reached out, brushing his thumb against her lip, drawing it out from between her teeth, then used it to tilt her chin up to meet his. He placed a sweet kiss on her lips, then again on the top of her head. "I want it to mean something, too. We don't have to rush it," he promised. "In fact, we shouldn't."

Hermione sighed; she was sure she would be proud of herself come morning light, but right now she was thoroughly upset with herself because her sexual frustration was somehow _worse_ than it had been earlier that night.

"So," she exhaled, leaning her head against his shoulder, burying it in the crook of his neck. "Now what?"

"Well," Draco began, leaning back against the headboard and tucking an arm around her, tossing the duvet over them with the other. "It's nearly morning, so why don't you stay? No pressure. We can just sleep."

"I doubt I'll be able to get much sleep," mumbled Hermione into his neck, drawing circles in the golden hairs glistening on his chest. It shook as he laughed, and she smiled inwardly, pleased with how comfortable they quickly became in each other's presence. "You know," she added, her gaze studying the many scars that littered his body (she used to do this all the time, though she never asked about them), "we sort of match now."

Hermione gestured to her own scarred abdomen, and Draco's dexterous fingers immediately began to trace along the white, jagged skin where one of the bullets pierced through just months ago. Hermione gritted her teeth; the skin was still sensitive, but it didn't pain her, not really. Especially not when Draco touched it.

"Yes," he finally murmured in response, "you look a bit like me now. Someone once told me that every scar has a story and that we should not be ashamed of them because they resemble something we overcame. Something that made us stronger."

"A story, huh?" She echoed. "I must read like an open book to you," she half-laughed. "I'm fairly certain the only scar I had before I met you was from when I fell off my bike as a child and split my temple open. I had to get nine stitches." Hermione's gaze followed Draco's fingers as they traced along the many other scars that she gathered in the past several years. "You know how I got all the other ones."

"Hm," he assented. "Yes. From the many times you defied death, as Theo so kindly reminded us all," he added.

Hermione shrugged.

Draco caught her eye snagging on something, then sighed, taking her hand in his and guiding it over one of the many scars across his chest; this one stretched across his shoulder, disappearing out of eyesight to his back. "This one, like many of my scars, was acquired during the war," he told her under his breath. Hermione held hers, aware of how little Draco liked to talk about his time in France and how sacred this moment might become.

"This one, however," he went on, "you'll probably find the most interesting of all as it pertains to a time when Harry bloody Potter saved my life." Draco interlaced their fingers. "I was a young leader, but a damned good one. Most of the men who were in my company you're familiar with. Greg, Vince, Blaise, Graham, Theo, all of them. Harry, and the Weasleys too, along with some other rag-tag bastards, were also in my charge. It was nerve wrecking, to be responsible for so many young lives when I was young myself…"

So, Draco told her of his most precarious night during the war – a pitch-black night in 1915, and the very one that Theo tried telling her about all those years ago.

The young company had found themselves in an unusual position; the front lines were shifting, with Italy having just entered the war, and were pushing against the French border the Allied Powers believed they had a strong hold on. Not anymore. With the Italians advancing, the Allies were losing precious ground. Determined not to let the Axis Powers destroy all of the pain and suffering the French and British troops had put into the frontlines, Draco, a young but remarkably clever leader, opted to do something about it.

In their particular region, in the south of France, many of the troops lining the trenches in the actual frontlines had been blown to smithereens. The Italians marched ever forward. They took over a mountain range just above where Draco and his company were camped; they were the next logical target for enemy advancement. They held their own for a few days, assisted by a few other remaining companies on the side of the mountain range, but the battle seemed futile. They couldn't hold them off forever.

Draco, feeling either incredibly heroic or unbelievably suicidal, decided to go out on his own to undermine the Italians camping atop the mountain.

He climbed through the mud with a rifle strapped across his back and a makeshift bomb stowed in one of his pockets. Draco planned to shoot down as many important-looking members in the Italian base as he could before being spotted, then he would ignite the bomb and annihilate the rest, and the camp along with them. The only problem – which he had foreseen – was that the range of the bomb was far wider than Draco's range of escape down the jagged mountain side.

It was a suicide mission.

Still, he was ready for it. Well, he was, he told her, until Harry Potter showed up.

"He was as much of a suicidal idiot then as he is now," Draco said, shaking his head; Hermione could feel the rumble of his chest under her cheek, though, and knew he was grateful, if not amused, by this particular character trait of Harry. "Potter must have followed me, because he caught up to me just as I came up to the edge of the camp. I shot several rounds into the night, hoping they connected with any target at that point because it was so _fucking dark_ that I couldn't make out anything."

"Several shots came back at me, but when I tried to duck out of the way, I snagged on a branch. It pierced the skin – it must have been one thorny motherfucker – and dragged through my skin, holding me captive and injuring me further as shots kept coming." He inhaled sharply as Hermione traced the scar along his chest and shoulder again. "Potter was there, lucky for me, and cut me loose from the thorny bush and shoved me behind a large boulder. Theo, for some fucking reason, had also followed. He helped Potter get me back down the mountain, but after hearing my pathetic excuse for the solo mission, stole the bomb and made his way back up the mountain."

He paused, staring off into the distance. Hermione saw the sun peeking through the clouds, coming over the horizon, and prompted Draco to continue. "And then?" She pressed, eager to hear the rest.

"And then he was gone. He was quick as lightning, Theo, always has been." He paused again, to laugh, then said, "Did you know Theo always carried a slingshot around with him? I always made fun of him for it, but I stopped making fun of him after that night. He pulled the pin on the bomb, then launched it over the mountain side and into the far end of their camp with his slingshot."

"It lit up the entire night, nearly blinding us all the whole journey down. It was worse, even, when the mountain began to shake, literally falling beneath our feet." He shook his head, freeing himself of the memory, then smiled down upon Hermione. "They saved my fucking life, and all of our lives, that night with their brave stupidity, yet I was the one who received the bloody fucking medal. It's a joke, and I hate being reminded of it every fucking time they use my title."

He tucked a curl behind her ear, kissing the spot on her temple where it had rested. "So much for sleeping tonight, hm?" Draco teased.

Hermione's lips stretched into a soft smile, grateful for the intimacy they shared that night. Even if it hadn't been the intimacy that she thought she wanted, it had been the kind the evidently needed from him, to heal them. To bring them back to a state of complete trust, understanding, and faith in one another.

"I told you I didn't think I'd get much sleep anyway," she smirked. Her fingers trailed lower down his abs, to a scar just above his hip bone; it was a small, circular scar that didn't seem to fit in with the other, larger jagged ones. "What about this one? Will you tell me this one's story?"

Draco laughed and kissed her again, this time sweetly on the lips.

"Yes, Hermione. I will tell you this story, and all of the stories, because I want you to know me as I believe I know you now." Draco shifted them, turning on his side to better tangle their limbs together. "This one was – It was before the war. My father he – he wasn't a very kind man." He stilled, and Hermione glanced up to see his eyes dark and stormy.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, I understand - "

"No, no. You should know." Draco inhaled deeply, then exhaled, pulling her closer. "I was six, and Mother was out for the day…" He began.

The sun broke through the clouds, lighting up the room and blinding Hermione so much that she ducked her head back into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of _him_. Her eyelids fluttered, and she felt herself drift into a peaceful half-sleep as Draco began his next story.

Perhaps, she thought dreamily, tightening her grip on him, scars were not always skin-deep, but with the help of those close to you, they were all capable of healing.

* * *

**A/N - **Thank you for sticking with this story! It is about to really get going now...

Chapter title comes from Lil Wayne's song featuring Adam Levine called _Trust Nobody_ from the lines _two fingers, I keep 'em crossed, I can't be looking for peace / I've been looking at the stars and they don't glisten for me_ xx


	5. This is Chess

**Chapter 5: This is Chess**

* * *

_7 May 1929_

_WEDDING OF THE DECADE: _

_THE LOVE STORY OF MISS GRANGER AND LORD MALFOY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_Although the lovely bride and groom-to-be are constantly in the spotlight, gracing the cover of several notable magazines and newspapers, they always decline any request for an interview. The only times we, as a nation, are lucky enough to hear the opinions of our brilliant Lord Malfoy is during public speeches, which are often political. Likewise, the only reference we have for Miss Granger's thoughts are from her interview with Forbes. Both, to our utter and complete disappointment, divulge absolutely no personal details about their relationship. Thus, it was up to me to uncover the secret behind their everlasting love via interviewing close friends and relatives of Lord Malfoy and Miss Granger._

_Miss Fleur Delacour, international French model and film star who formerly starred in a Christmas advert for Coco Chanel that continues to circle the globe annually, said: "Zey 'are meant to be, definitely! I 'ave known zem for a very long time and zey 'ave only ever 'ad eyes for each other. It is very sweet. I zink zat zeir bebe will 'ave zeir best traits, and I cannot wait to meet zee leetle one!"_

_Madame Bellatrix Lestrange, maternal aunt of Lord Malfoy, said: "Oh, my nephew is so smart and so accomplished, don't you think? I taught him so much, you know. And that future wife of his! Miss Granger, yes, I knew right away that she was the perfect match for my dear nephew. My sister, bless her, wasn't quite as sure, but then again, her judgment is questionable, is it not? I mean look at where she is now!"_

_Finally, Miss Luna Lovegood, daughter and heiress to Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood, owner of the second most profitable betting shops in London (second to Mr. Malcolm Flint, another close friend of the couple) said: "Miss Granger and Lord Malfoy are exceedingly loyal, and they stand to take over the world, not just London, if they continue to trust in one another and keep their wits about. Not to mention, they've already secured their line of succession."_

Where do I fucking start?

Let me tell you, it is not as easy as it sounds to avoid Rita and her nosy pen. I'm not surprised that she got tired of Draco and I constantly avoiding her attempts to get information from us and simply resorted to interviewing our _close friends and relatives_ instead.

Which is _hilarious._

I mean… _Fleur_? The woman who I was (and still somewhat am, despite Draco giving me absolutely no reason to be) jealous of following any interaction after that bloody advert that keeps fucking coming up. Her interview, at least, was probably accurate and required very little editing. Bellatrix's interview as well, though I loathe her enthusiasm for her sister's fate. I can practically picture her teeth bared in a too-big grin as she spilled everything to Rita. Was that even fucking necessary, like come on?

I can't imagine Luna's interview was scripted verbatim into the _Daily Prophet_. In fact, I would bet anything they had to cut the word "fuck" out at least fifteen times in just those two sentences alone.

Love that for her.

* * *

_28 April 1927._

Hermione was a busybody; she almost always had an assignment, task, or other form of work to do. Impending deadlines were comforting. Staying up half the night exhausting a new theory was typical. But constantly being barred from offering any help, even secretarial, to Malfoy Company Limited was strange and infuriating; the last time she'd felt this useless and left out was when she had been rudely placed under house arrest by Draco. True, they've come a long way since then, and _he_ made no effort to keep her away from Death Eater business, but that was beside the point.

"If you're bored, Hermione, find something to occupy yourself with. A new hobby, perhaps," Narcissa told her when she tried – and failed – to attend a board meeting a few weeks ago.

"I don't need a new hobby," she retorted. "What I need is to be involved in company business!"

"No," corrected Narcissa with a cutting glare, "what you _need_ is to leave the company alone and accept that your talents now lie elsewhere. Which reminds me, have you received the latest update from Pansy? There is a high chance you will be approached by reporters this evening, and I don't want you to be so embarrassingly uninformed in _your own_ work."

Hermione grumbled her understanding of her role, then disappeared from Narcissa's office with the attitude of a teenager who had just been issued an early curfew; reproachfully, that evening at one of Draco's colleagues fundraisers, Hermione was asked about her work for his company; she smiled – painfully yet politely – and repeated verbatim what Pansy was currently doing to advance the company as if it were her own ingenuous ideas.

If Narcissa wanted Hermione to find a _hobby_ that was akin to Astoria's, then she didn't make it clear.

"I just don't know what she wants me to do," Hermione complained to Astoria that morning over a steaming cup of tea and biscuits. They were the only two left in the dining room with Luna, who was chewing idly on French toast in the corner; everyone else hurried off with various pieces of food, throwing out hasty explanations for their inability to sit for breakfast. Draco kissed Hermione over the top of her head, then shot her a half-smile on his way out, earning a pointed smirk from Astoria. "What do you do for her?" Hermione asked, steering the conversation away from her relationship with Draco.

"Oh, Hermione, you know I can't tell you that," Astoria replied disapprovingly. "Come on now, how long have you lived here?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Never mind that. I thought you were my best friend,"

"Ouch," Astoria hissed playfully; her jade green eyes twinkled over her cup as she raised it to her pink lips. "We're playing dirty now, are we? Right then, well if I'm your _best friend_, then you won't hesitate to tell me what the hell that was all about with Draco just now, hm?"

"No, no," she tutted. "Stop trying to change the subject."

"I'll tell you my secret if you tell me yours," Astoria taunted.

Hermione knew better than to make a deal with Astoria, best friend or not, but she couldn't help but give in to the promise of understanding what it was that she did, and subsequently, what it was that Narcissa might be expecting from her.

"Fine," she agreed, somewhat reluctantly.

"You first," said Astoria; the mischievous grin on her angelic face deepening, yet somehow adding to her ethereal beauty. "Spit it out. What's going on with you two? You've both been acting weird for months."

"Well–"

"You slept together?"

Hermione choked on a biscuit, hacking a bit of it up and pounding her palm against her chest. "What?" Hermione wheezed. "No," she said, soothing her burning throat with equally burning tea. "No, we haven't slept together since – Well – You _know_," she flicked her wrist, grimacing.

Astoria shook her head. "Come on – use your words, Hermione. You can do it."

"Piss off,"

"Alright, fine," Astoria sighed. She set her teacup down, thanked Dobby as he took it and their other dishes away, then stood up and linked her arm in Hermione's; the two of them set off through the Manor to the back gardens. "No one will overhear us here, not that anyone would believe a word Luna says even if she did repeat what she heard us talking about," she said, taking a seat in the gleaming white gazebo and motioning for Hermione to sit opposite her. She did. "Go on," commanded Astoria.

Hermione exhaled; her curls whipped around her face, falling loose from her hasty plait, in the strong spring winds. "We haven't slept together. _Seriously_," she added at Astoria's pursed lips. "It's just – It's been – We're different,"

"Obviously," supplied Astoria. "Did something happen?"

Her mind went momentarily blank, then immediately recollected their discussion on Boxing Day. It was late in the afternoon by the time the household was awake – all, except for Hermione, being thoroughly hungover – and even later in the day by the time they sat to eat Dobby's delicious Boxing Day roast. Hermione wandered into the formal dining room early, despite Kreacher's protests, because she didn't feel like listening to Astoria and Wood recount their many Scottish adventures for the fourth time or watch Daphne and Pansy play tricks on the others.

"I hope you don't mind," Draco said, startling Hermione as he appeared in the room behind her. "I requested that Dobby move your seat closer to mine." He gestured to the seat to the head of the table, where he sat; on the right was a name card for Narcissa, per usual, but on the left read Hermione's name. "If you don't want to sit next to me, I understand, and I can have Dobby–"

"No," she interrupted, regaining control of her breathing, "It's fine. I didn't expect–"

"That I would keep my word from last night – or, more accurately, this morning?"

Hermione stilled. "I didn't think you remembered much of that conversation, if I'm being honest." He traipsed closer to her, and her head spun at the wafting scent of his cologne; he looked unfairly handsome for having slept only an hour or so that morning. Hermione, conversely, didn't get a wink of sleep.

"I remember," Draco said. "I also remember waking up to an empty bed." She shrugged; it was better for both of them, she told herself earlier, for her to sneak away back to her room before anyone woke up.

"Right. Well–"

"I meant what I said, Hermione." Draco stated briskly; his fingers wrapped neatly around his wine glass and the rest of his posture emitted an air of calm, but the flash of silver in his eyes hinted toward Hermione that he was far more nervous than he let on. "I love you. I still do, and I'm afraid it seems I always will, no matter how foolish it may be for me to do so." A slight twitch of his lip indicated that he might have thought himself amusing, and Hermione blinked.

"That doesn't–"

"Change anything? I know that." Draco didn't break eye contact with her, and Hermione's heart gave a murderous lurch. "My affections toward will not waver, and now that I've accepted that, I can move forward with the next step."

"Next step?" She pressed.

"Yes. I intend to show you, every day, how much you mean to me. I won't let a day go by where you question my affection for you – my love for you. I don't expect to win your heart back, and I meant what I said about that, too, because I don't want you to say or do anything in return out of some misguided obligation to please me. I won't have it, Hermione," he told her. "I am just doing what any man would do for the woman he loves, and if – one day – you do decide you love me back, then I want it to be for something only Draco Malfoy does." He paused, brushed aside a loose curl and presented her with a fresh gardenia from his breast pocket. "I owe you a lifetime of happiness and affection for what I have done to you, Hermione, and even though I know I can't make up for it, I'd like to try. If you'll allow me the honor,"

Hermione realized a little too late that the last words from his lips were, in fact, a question; she nodded meekly, but when she tried to open her mouth to respond, the others started filing into the dining room to take their seats.

"Please," Draco said with a wink, pulling out her chair.

Afterwards, he moved on to pull out the seat for his mother, then stood as everyone else settled; he gave a gracious speech to the few members of the family who remained for the holiday and thanked each and every one of them for their contributions. It was lovely, and more than that, Draco stuck by his word because over the next few months, he was the most chivalrous, kind and considerate human being she suspected she'd ever met.

"No," Hermione lied, blinking as she readjusted to the present and Astoria sitting before her, staring at her imploringly. "Nothing happened. He's just – He's different."

"He's a guy," she commented.

"It's more than that, Astoria. I know Draco. _You _know Draco. He's being nice, including me in everything he has control over, and it's – it's almost like before. Like _before_ before."

"Well," Astoria sighed. "That's certainly new for him. So – What? – Are you two dating now?" Her brunette eyebrows shot up, and Hermione found herself at a loss for words; _were_ they dating? Although the niceties were heavily on Draco's end, there were some occasions in which Hermione reciprocated his affections; namely, this involved light flirtations and discussions about any political dilemmas he faced. Ultimately, Hermione shrugged, then glanced quickly away from Astoria's piercing gaze. "I suppose that's not so unusual." Astoria ruled. "Besides, you two are allegedly _in love_ or something else horribly inaccurate according to the _Daily Prophet_."

"Right," agreed Hermione absentmindedly. "Anyway, forget about me and Draco. Tell me all about what you actually do when you're off on missions for Narcissa. What does she have you do? What am _I _expected to do, or do you think she really meant I need to find a hobby?"

"No, I'm certain she has something up her sleeve for you. As for what that is – only you could figure it out. That's how she works, you see, she plays to your strengths. With your background, I can only imagine she wants you to do some reconnaissance work or something like it." Astoria kicked her heel over her leg.

"Should I ask her what she wants – point blank?" Hermione asked.

"Absolutely not. That would defeat the purpose of it,"

"But you two are always talking in hushed tones in the corner of whatever room the family meetings take place in," she scowled.

"We operate differently," shrugged Astoria.

"So, again, what _do_ you do?"

This time, Astoria fixed Hermione with a teasing smirk and stood up. "I can't tell you, Hermione. Sorry," though her tone was not apologetic in the slightest. Hermione hastily followed Astoria back up through the gardens, hot on her heels for more information.

"But we made a deal!" Hermione protested. Astoria shrugged her dainty shoulders, plucked a silk scarf from one of her dresses pockets and tied it fashionably over her head, then slid on a pair of dark shades. "Where are you going now?" Hermione grimaced.

"I have errands to run," she non-answered.

As Astoria disappeared through the house and into the garage, with Kreacher following dutifully behind her, ready to drive her wherever she needed to go, Hermione slumped into a velvet armchair by an open window. She was so lost in thought that she didn't hear Harry approach until their knees were practically touching.

"Holy shit, Harry," she shrieked. "You scared the fucking life out of me,"

"Sorry," he chuckled. "I just got back from an overnight shift. Slept in a bit, of course, then came here to see Nott, but–"

"He's not here," Hermione answered for him, nodding along. "Yeah, he went off with Malcolm to check out a new lead on the missing boys' cases."

"Right," Harry exhaled. "Well, since I'm here, do you fancy a game of chess?"

Hermione laughed, then motioned to a nearby bookcase where a portable chess table and pieces were stored. "I don't know why you're always so keen to play with me," she told him as she began organizing her pieces – black as usual. "You always lose."

"Well, maybe this time I won't," he teased. Yet, still, Hermione believed his opening move could do with great improvement. After his fifth piece was captured in twice as many moves, Harry sighed. "Nott seems to think that if I was better at chess, then I would be better at my job. I don't think he understands how difficult it is to be good at _two_ jobs simultaneously, though."

"Fudge still not budging?" Hermione guessed.

"Not even a little," he confessed, looking thoroughly downtrodden by the admission.

Hermione pursed her lips, then met his emerald eyes with a blazing look of her own. "Harry," she said. At his reluctant glance away from the board, she continued, "Harry, would you like me to teach you some chess moves? For one thing, it would greatly improve your strategy in reality, Nott isn't entirely wrong about that, and for another, it would make my beating you much more satisfying for me."

"As much as I hate to accept that, I think I have to." Harry scrapped their game in favor of Hermione's proposition. "Maybe you can help me with Fudge, too," he mused aloud.

"I already told you everything I know about–"

"Yeah, I know, but what if there's something that's happened while I've been working under him and I completely missed it?" He looked at her expectantly, and Hermione mutely assented, waving her hand for Harry to go on as she began setting up a clever opening move on the board between them with her other hand. "So, he usually meets with this horrible toad woman, Umbridge, every Monday…"

* * *

Draco swept into the sitting room with a fresh cigarette dangling precariously from his lips; he unbuttoned his exquisite three-piece suit and immediately poured himself a glass of spiced whiskey from one of the crystal decanters on the bar cart. He took a large gulp, finishing the first drink in one go, then readily poured himself a second glass. His grey gaze took in the other occupants of the room; he raised his glass to Pansy, who held an identical one in her hand and lounged on the loveseat above where Daphne and Blaise sprawled across the floor, deep in conversation over a pile of messy parchment. Draco stepped in the direction of Harry and Hermione where the former was dozing off as the latter read a book with her legs stretched out across his lap.

A cough from the doorway, however, halted his motion. Draco turned to see Winky inclining her head in; he nodded mutely for her to address him.

"Master Malfoy," she began, "There is a Miss Weasley here to see you. Shall I show her into the Board Room upstairs, sir?"

"No, Winky, the office across the hall will do. This will be quick," and he let his gaze wander back to Hermione as Winky disappeared from view. No longer able to focus on the book in her lap, Hermione tilted her head questioningly at Draco; he hesitated for a moment in the center of the room, then turned away from the door and strode up to where she sat with Harry by the window, though the sun had long since gone down. "Would you care to join us?"

"You and Ginny?" Hermione asked, flabbergasted. Draco nodded, and she bristled reflexively. "No thank you," and pointedly averted her eyes from his gleaming silver ones.

Draco blinked. "You dislike her," he stated, though it was less of a statement and more of a bemused observation; the question hung in the air.

"You don't?"

She hated how childish that sounded, but there was no taking it back now. Luckily, Draco seemed rather well-tempered despite the hidden accusation.

"Not necessarily," he replied. "She's a formidable ally, and her control over the New Order is commendable–"

"If Ginny is so great, then what do you need me for? You two have had plenty of meetings without me so, I hardly think my presence is noteworthy." Hermione retorted, leaning into her jealousy despite the ghost of a smirk evident on Draco's lips; he smartly rid his expression of any amusement before kneeling down beside her sofa so the two of them were at eye level. Hermione grimaced, "What?"

"You can't possibly think there's anything going on between Miss Weasley and I,"

"Well, maybe not anymore," she muttered under her breath, stowing the book away and folding her arms over her chest, analyzing her perfectly clean nails rather than meet his eye.

In the immediate silence that followed, Hermione risked a glance at Draco; she expected to see a taunting smirk on his face at her blatant jealousy, especially if her accusations rang true, but she was surprised to find an open look of shock – and if she was not mistaken, a touch of hurt – on his pale features. "Hermione, there was _never_ anything going on between us – or anyone else – ever." He sighed, rubbed his thumbpad lightly across her elbow, and added, "You have to know that."

"Even when–"

"Even then," he cut in.

"Oh," she pronounced, biting her lip and searching his face for a sign of deceit. "But I thought–"

"Will you two _please_ stop arguing?" Said Harry, though his eyes remained closed, arms stayed crossed, and his overall demeaner was no different from when he'd been sleeping soundly. "Your bickering is not good for the baby?"

"The baby?" Hermione and Draco replied in unison.

"Yes," he exhaled, finally opening his eyes to half-glare at them. "It's me – I'm the baby."

At this, Draco rolled his eyes and stood up, finishing his second drink and leaving the glass on one of the side tables; Hermione kicked her feet off of Harry's lap and chuckled under her breath, then patted his knee affectionately before moving to follow Draco out of the room and into the office across the hall. Before either of them could pass by Daphne and Blaise – now scribbling various designs and equations with Pansy engrossed in a newspaper above them – Theo burst into the room with his finger aimed at Draco menacingly.

"What the actual _fuck_, Draco?" He hissed; Malcolm, wheezing and limping, on his heels with Winky, Ron and Ginny standing in the open doorway with their mouths gaping and brows furrowed. "I thought you said you were sending backup?"

"I did. Why the hell do you two look like you just climbed out of the fucking trenches?" He shot back. Everyone surrounding them took a collective intake of breath as Theo and Draco squared off in the center of the room; one was dressed impeccably well with hair slightly windswept from the drive home, and the other sported several bruises and cuts with clothes that were indeed caked in dirt and grime, and yet both stood equally feral. "What happened?"

"Wait – Hold on," Blaise said, holding his palms up; he was wholly ignored.

"_What happened?_" Theo repeated, lip snarling. "I'll tell you what fucking happened: shit hit the fucking fan, Draco. Whose brilliant idea was it to call off the backup, hm? Was it yours?" He whirled around to jab a bloodied finger at Ginny, "Or was it hers?"

"Nobody called off the backup–"

"Backup?" Blaise interjected; again, his commentary died out in the bellows of his best mates.

"Well somebody fucking did! We almost bloody _died_ out there–"

"What's going on? What happened?" Pansy insisted, shouldering her way past Draco to get a better look at Theo and Malcom, who both wore grimaces of pain and resentment across their faces, which, naturally pale, were darkened by dirt and soot. "What the hell happened to you two?" She gaped.

"Does this have anything to do with the missing boys' cases?" Harry piped up, shifting to stand beside Hermione.

She, recalling that's exactly what this must be related to, glanced nervously between Theo and Draco – both of whom were locked in a staring contest, no doubt exchanging coded arguments. Hermione suspected nothing was resolved by this because both men continued to shout at each other after several beats of silence; still, neither broke eye contact nor lifted the tension from their muscles.

"What happened?"

"Wait, I don't–"

"Where was backup?"

"_What_–"

"Will somebody _please_ explain what the fuck–"

"_Where_–"

"Enough!" Hermione barked. When neither of them looked in her direction, she stepped forward to stand between them in order to make herself seen and heard. "That's enough," she growled. "We're adults, and we're family, so quit acting like _fucking children_ and start talking to one another – in reasonable fucking voices and with a little bit of fucking compassion for fuck's sake."

"Holy fucking shite… I knew I liked you for some fucking reason," said Luna, appearing as if from thin air and smiling her sickly-sweet smile as every head in the room slowly turned to face her; she let out a low whistle, then smacked Handsome James across the bicep. "Didn't I tell you she was fucking brilliant? And, evidently, she's just as sane as I am, too,"

Hermione's eye twitched.

"You first," she said to Theo, trying to steer the attention back to the matter at hand. "Tell us what happened. You," she added by nodding to Malcolm, "feel free to chime in with your recollection as well. The more objective the narrative the better," she said with a pointed eyebrow lift in Theo's direction.

He scowled, then did as she asked, all the while never taking his eyes off Draco. "As I suspected," he began with contempt, "we were ambushed."

"I–"

"Uh-uh," Hermione cut in, holding up a finger to silence Draco's outburst. "I said Theo first."

Ordinarily, including any other time in their seven-year history, this particular act of defiance would have earned Hermione either a severe reprimanding or sexual punishment, or both. A flicker of hesitation lit up like an old flame behind Draco's dark gaze, and Hermione lifted a single brow quizzically, daring him to act on his old impulse. If he meant what he said to her, and the progress they'd made recently was real, then he would back down and let her continue; which he did, with a subtle nod and lips pressed firmly together. There was a hush among those looking on, curious and amazed at what just transposed, but Hermione payed them no attention; she'd been in a similar position between Theo and Draco before, and, like then, knew to give Theo the benefit of the doubt.

"Go on," she encouraged, nodding now to him.

Sensing this change in power, Theo started anew. "Malcolm and I thought we had a new lead on the missing boys," he said, speaking clearly and calmly for the first time that evening. "There was some chatter at the docks from some of Blaise's old contacts that Barty Crouch Jr might be hiding somewhere on the outskirts of the city – out east near Lovegood's hideout." He nodded in her direction, but she was preoccupied by a book she pulled from the shelf and was reading it upside-down. "We went out there, but because of what happened last time with the Order and the homemade bomb, I told Draco that it would be a good idea for us to have some backup. He told me he had it covered and that they'd be there by the time we got out there."

Theo paused; he, and everyone else, waited for Draco's counterargument, but Draco's face remained passive, and without Hermione's approval to speak, stayed silent.

"We got there," Theo went on, "and all hell broke loose – _again_. Crouch Jr was there, alright, but he had a fuck-ton of guys with him. Outnumbered us three to one, easily, and just started to beat the fucking shit out of us. They didn't kill us, and for the life of me I couldn't figure out why, until they knelt us down in front of Crouch and told us he wanted to send Draco a message." His eyes momentarily flickered to Harry, gleamed a deep ocean blue, then back to Hermione. "One of Crouch's henchmen – Rookwood I think he called him – aimed a gun at my heart and said, 'How many men does it take to send a message?' then _fucking shot me_."

Hermione's eyes dropped to Theo's chest, where she couldn't find any evidence of a gun-shot-wound; then again, she thought unhappily, Theo would likely be dead if there was any evidence of such a wound.

"What happened?"

"God played a sick joke or some shit," exhaled Theo with a choking laugh. He dug out a metal object from his inner suit pocket, just above where his heart was beating in his chest and held it up: a flask, bent in around a shining silver bullet. "I don't how the hell this happened, but – It took the fucking wind out of me – By the time they realized I wasn't dead, though, it was too late, and I'd already stolen one of their automatic rifles off of them. Stupid gits left it lying on the floor," he explained.

"They told me the message while he was still down," input Malcolm.

"We shot our way out of there, but Crouch Jr is still on the run, I reckon. Last I looked, I only killed two of them, too." Theo finished with a shrug of his shoulders; the movement caused him to wince, and Hermione grimaced at the clear sign that although the bullet didn't pierce Theo's chest, it did leave some damage; at the very least, he suffered a few broken ribs.

She nodded her thanks to him, and Harry immediately took the opportunity to rush to Theo's side. Hermione turned to Draco. "Now you," she stated.

"I didn't call off the backup," he said. "I phoned Scabior himself and had him rearrange coppers' schedules so that some of our guys could get out there – including McLaggen."

"What?" Ginny exclaimed, speaking up for the first time since entering the room. Her brother stood beside her, and both of them reminded Hermione of hellfire with their flaming hair and furious glares. "Where the hell is he then if he didn't show up?"

"No idea," grunted Theo.

"All we know is nobody showed up," added Malcolm. "We just assumed it was your doing – that there was a reason…"

"Hm," mused Draco, frowning. "I'll make another call to Scabior, first thing. Weasley," he said, and both of their intense gazes shifted to land on his cool features. "Find McLaggen – If he's in trouble, let me know right away. If he's fine, then I'll need one hell of an explanation. Also, make sure that McLaggen keeps his cover intact. We can't afford to replace him, and if there's something deeper that we need to worry about, then he would make an excellent source of intel."

"You better fucking pray he's alright," was all Ginny said before departing the room with her brother in a blur of scarlet.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose; his shoulders sagged infinitesimally, and Hermione knew if they weren't surrounded by half the household, then he would have collapsed into a chair by now. Instead, he picked up his crystal glass, refilled it with a double shot of spiced whiskey, swallowed it in one go, then threw the glass into the hearth and watched the flames ignite with the remnants of liquor.

As much as Hermione wanted to coax him out of the room and into his bed, where perhaps she could get him to calm his nerves and temper, she knew it was far better in the long run to get him to vent about any potential problems Theo's run-in posed in front of everyone. Above all, she wanted to make sure no detail went amiss – something seemed off; a quick meeting of Harry's eye and Hermione knew he felt the same gut-wrenching feeling.

"You said you went there to investigate a lead on the missing boys," Hermione said softly, addressing Theo with a gentle touch of her fingers against his wrist.

He sighed, leaning toward Harry, then said, "We did, but they weren't there. Crouch looked plenty comfortable, too, and I can't imagine he's been staying in one place for too long. If he does have those boys hidden somewhere – for ransom or leverage or – _fuck_ I don't know – then it'll take a lot more manpower than the Death Eaters have and a hell of a lot more intelligence than the coppers have."

"Why do you say that?" She pressed.

"Because," Pansy said, nearly causing Hermione to jump because she'd forgotten about her presence. "It would take a lot of wealth and influence to hide fifteen teenage boys," – "They're all of age," added Daphne, whose fingers were tightly interlaced with Pansy's – "as well as cover up for Crouch and his henchmen. That type of man isn't common."

"Especially," said Daphne with a furtive glance in Malcolm's direction, "one with a vendetta against Draco."

Hermione frowned, not connecting the implication right away, then stilled; her eyes swept once again between Theo and Draco, then landed on Harry. "Fudge?" She mouthed to him. Harry shrugged. Hermione shifted to face Malcolm and, when no one else made any indication to, addressed him next. "What was the message? You mentioned that Crouch had a message to send to Draco – What was it?"

"He said–" Malcolm swallowed visibly. "He said 'This is the dawn of a new era, and your empire is destined to fall'."

* * *

"Come in," Hermione called.

"Winky will get the door, Miss!" Winky shouted excitedly, leaving Hermione to finish tying her unruly curls into an acceptable chignon. "Oh! Master Malfoy! Winky thinks it is so nice to see you visiting Miss Granger. Winky will leave you's to talk, sir."

Draco stepped over the threshold with his hands buried in his trouser pockets and offered Winky a quick smile. "Thank you, Winky."

"Winky will see you later, Miss!" She bid to Hermione, who waved her off with a pleasant smile and equally pleasant farewell.

"Good morning," Hermione greeted when they had the room to themselves. She stepped back from the vanity table, then crossed the room to sit beneath the windowsill where Draco leaned, staring out into the gardens. The morning was crisp and sunny; a light breeze drifted into the room via the open windows, tussling the long blond strands that hung in Draco's forehead. He straightened to look at her, and she tilted her head, studying the beautiful hue of his eyes. "You didn't sleep much, did you?"

"No," he confirmed. "It's impossible to think of anything other than that threat."

"This isn't the first time you've received threats, Draco," she noted softly, though Hermione understood his anxiety stemmed less from the notion of the threat and more from the fact that it was illogical. Voicing these concerns, Hermione added, "We'll figure out what his endgame is – I wouldn't be surprised if Theo stayed up half the night coming up with theories."

"I have no doubt that's exactly what he did, and with Potter and his absurd gut-feeling, it will be impossible to eat breakfast without falling for one of their ill-planned schemes." Draco raked his hand through his hair. "I've been racking my brain to try and imagine a reason Crouch might have for targeting me, but I honestly can't think of anything. If he wanted money, then he would have ransomed the orphaned boys by now – and that's provided he actually has them."

"You don't think Astoria was right all along, do you – that they simply ran off?"

"Fifteen of them? From the same orphanage? I don't need to tell you the statistical improbability of that happening," he mused, flashing her a teasing grin. Hermione sighed and leaned into his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of smoke and sandalwood. His knuckles trailed up and down her spine, and he went on, murmuring in her ear, "If he wanted power or influence, then he would have tried to blackmail me rather than dethrone me entirely."

"He hasn't dethroned you yet," she pointed out.

"That's another thing. Why would he bother to warn me about my own demise if he wasn't _beyond certain_ that it was inevitable? Why show your cards before you play them, you know?" Hermione nodded and Draco exhaled, then laced his fingers in hers and led her out into the hall and toward breakfast. "It's unnerving. I'm used to reading my components motives – thinking ten steps ahead at all times – but for some reason I can't… I can't even see the board this time."

"We'll figure it out," Hermione assured him, giving his hand a firm squeeze before dropping it and stepping into the dining room before him. She blinked at the crowded table and located an empty chair between Harry and Astoria; Draco crossed the room to speak to Narcissa and Pansy briefly before taking his seat at the head of the table, between them. "Where's Wood?" Hermione asked Astoria. "Actually, come to think of it, where's he been all week? I haven't seen him around the Manor in ages,"

"That's because he hasn't been around the Manor for ages," she replied with a taunting smirk. "It's about time you noticed, Granger."

"Oh, come on. That's not fair, I've been–"

"I know, I know." Astoria cut in, shaking her head. "I'm messing with you, Hermione. Lighten up, will you?" Astoria passed Hermione the jam she'd been pointing at, then stole an extra piece of bacon before passing that to her as well. "Oliver is fine. He returned to Scotland for some business, but he'll be back by the end of next week latest."

"You two still… good?" Hermione asked.

"Your vocabulary astounds me," she quipped; her jade green eyes glinted mischievously. "We're wonderful, thank you for asking. How are _you two?_" Astoria countered, wiggling her ebony eyebrows over her next sip of tea; Hermione, also lifting her cup of English breakfast to her lips, forcibly swallowed the steaming liquid and winced at the pain. "Interesting," Astoria mused, dropping the topic.

"Alright," Theo announced loudly, gathering everyone's attention once a natural lull settled into the dining room. "We need to talk about what the fuck happened last night and what the fuck we're going to do about it."

"_Theo_," hissed Marietta, clapping her palms over her youngest children's ears. "Could you possibly wait until there are no longer _children_ in the vicinity before you start mouthing off about Death Eater business?" She, along with Millie, glared at Theo, then at their respective husbands. Vince chuckled under his breath, trying to hide it in his serviette, as his mates on either side of him sunk in their chairs. "Draco?" Marietta added, swiveling her long face toward his end of the table.

"I haven't finished my tea, Marietta. If we have important matters to discuss, we shall do it here, and if you do not wish your children to overhear our conversation, then I suggest you escort them from the room." He ruled. Marietta and Millie scowled at this, but nonetheless ushered their children from the room; Graham and Greg stayed behind. "Nott," continued Draco with a nod, "Carry on."

"Do they really need to be here for this?" Theo grimaced, nodding toward Luna and her Three Stooges.

Luna registered that Theo was referring to her and her men and abruptly dropped the biscuit she'd been dunking in her tea with a loud _plop_. "Are you fucking kidding me, Nott? You have the audacity – no, the _balls_ – to question my presence here? Fuck you. Last time I fucking checked, Baby Flint came back with considerably fewer fucking cuts and bruises all over his baby fucking face when he accompanied _me_ outside these four fucking walls." She scoffed, shaking her head; long blonde curls fell over her shoulders as she leaned forward to brandish her butter knife in his direction. "Get outta here with that fuckery, Nott,"

"_Excuse me? _Where do you get off–"

Draco sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and held up his hand to silence them.

"Cut it out," he ordered. "Lovegood stays. She can be… trusted," he said, though his hesitation to speak the last word was evident to everyone in the room. "Your men, however," he nodded to the Three Stooges. "They can go."

"We've been over this, Young Malfoy," she retorted – which Hermione still found extremely curious seeing as Luna was most likely _younger_ than Draco – "If I fucking stay they fucking stay."

Draco stared at her, unblinking, then shifted to address Theo again. "Just fucking get on with it so we can be done with this. I have important matters to attend to today, unless you would rather that I put off phoning Scabior to find out precisely what went wrong last night?"

"No," replied Theo, "Actually that's exactly it. We need to devise a plan to investigate why the fuck everything went bloody upside-down last night. Pansy's right," he said, nodding to her; she lifted her chin proudly. "Crouch Jr must have someone high up who would not only be able to afford to cover his sorry arse, but also be willing to direct an attack on you and the Death Eaters."

"And your thoughts are…?"

"You don't want to know," Harry supplied under his breath. Hermione laughed.

Theo ignored this. "His father could be involved."

"_The Speaker of the House?_" Hermione exclaimed, aghast.

"Yes – in fact, his political position only further proves my point. Who else would be willing to take such an aggressive strike against Draco? It's only since he started campaigning in the House of Lords that we've been the subject of such fucked up circumstances." Hermione grimaced, and Theo continued, counting off the accounts on his finger as if they could have all somehow forgotten. "The missing boys? Directly cuts off Draco's new fledging Death Eaters. The attack on both of you at Westminster? Obviously, a failed murder attempt. The bombing at Crouch's hideout? Strained relations with Draco's new ally – the New Order. Then, there was the fucking message and attempted murder last night, which I highly doubt requires explaining."

"Still," she protested. "You think Barty Crouch Senior was behind all of that?"

"He does oppose Draco in nearly every bill," supplied Narcissa; her pale eyes glinted ominously as her manicured hands tapped against the hardwood table. "Besides, his son is hardly a model citizen."

"_Your _son is hardly a model citizen," countered Hermione coolly.

"He doesn't exactly give me bloodthirsty vibes," input Pansy, crossing her arms over her chest.

Blaise tilted his head back and forth. "I can see that – he's very play-by-the-book, though," he added, drawing out the last word, "his suits may be bespoke, but even I can tell he doesn't have the wealth his family name is known for."

"You can't possibly be judging his likelihood construct a rival gang from his mild demeanor and last spring's suits," uttered Daphne, frowning between Pansy and Blaise, who both shrugged as if her point held virtually no weight in their minds; Hermione suspected it didn't; they were very stubborn.

Malcolm mumbled something that no one caught, and Blaise, who sat next to him, blinked at the youngest member at the table several times. "Did you say something Baby Flint?"

"Is that really sticking?" He groaned; there were hushed agreements around the table. He shot Luna a sidelong glare and added, "I blame you, Lovegood,"

"I believe what you meant to fucking say, Baby Flint, is thank you very fucking much," she smirked.

"What did you say?" Draco asked, disregarding the banter; his fingers were interlaced in front of his face, as if he was about to pray. It wasn't entirely on brand for him, if he were praying, but Hermione thought it wasn't totally uncalled for given their current predicament.

"Err – It was nothing really – I just said that the suit point was valid," he muttered, shrugging. His dark eyes flitted back and forth across the others seated around the dining table; a few of them, including Blaise and Daphne, hummed their agreement. "Well, it's just – If he spent all of his family wealth, then wouldn't targeting you and your wealth gained by the Death Eaters be a reasonable motive?" Malcolm directed his query to Draco, whose lips pressed into a dangerously thin line.

"Wait – Hold on," said Graham, glancing between Narcissa, Draco, and Theo. "How would this guy even know about Draco's association with the Death Eaters?" He paused. "If he's supposedly 'targeting his empire' by cutting off his allies and draining his source of new members, then shouldn't he be thoroughly informed about the Death Eaters? Wouldn't he have to know _how_ we operate in order to disrupt it?"

"Precisely," said Theo. "He would have to be very well informed. Bloody hell, he knew _exactly_ the profile of young boys we usually recruit when they come of age."

"Other than that, though, the rest of the attacks weren't well thought-out." Hermione argued, shaking her head. "The bomb? That could have been intended for anyone who found his hideout. The shooting at Westminster? The whole bloody country knows Draco works there."

"That's provided Draco was the intended target," cut in Astoria with a dark glint in her eyes. No one commented.

"Err – Right," Hermione finally said, breaking the silence. "Still – Even last night's attack was purely situational. They couldn't have planned that."

"We're getting off point here," Theo voiced. "Barty Crouch Junior _and_ Senior are out to get us–"

"That's not necessarily true," she protested.

"How? He's got the resources, the motive, the knowledge–"

"No." Hermione said; her tone was firm. "He's not the only one who could be behind all of this – if it's even all connected – he's simply one of a few we know of, and if he truly has a wealth problem, then how is he able to afford this?" She motioned toward Pansy. "Not to mention, there is Fudge who may or may not have motives, depending on his involvement with the Aurors," where her hand shifted to where Harry sat. "Plus, if we're basing our possible suspect pool off of those high-ranking officials, then there's quite a few more people than Fudge and Crouch who we know _for a fact_ are aware of Draco's association with the Death Eaters."

"_What?_" Astoria shrieked. "How many bloody people know about that?"

"Oh right," Hermione mumbled, meeting her eye. "I forgot you weren't there for that family meeting. Draco, per a _specific opportunity_, assassinated of a communist – well, technically, I think Theo killed him, but – Never mind."

"Fuck, I forgot about that," mused Graham.

"So… a considerable amount of people know then?" Astoria clarified.

"Far more than would be ideal." Narcissa stated, digging a cigarette out from her blouse and lighting it. She exhaled several rings of smoke. "I doubt any of them would be so undignified as to use Barty Crouch Junior to do their bidding, though."

"All I'm saying," Hermione said, turning to Theo, "is that we can't presume the Senior is behind this just because the Junior is involved. Besides, aren't they supposed to be estranged or something like that? I thought there were several mentions of their relationship in the papers."

"As if that were any fucking indication of what the fuck is actually going on between them," barked Luna, nearly choking on laughter. She lifted her own lit cigarette and pointed it between Hermione and Draco, who sat on opposite ends of the long dining table. "Or, aren't you two supposed to be in fucking love for all fucking eternity or something?"

"I still think it's worth looking into," grumbled Theo, ignoring Luna. He sat up straighter and flicked his wrist toward Draco. "What do you think? You're the damn leader after all."

"That I am," he sighed. "Hermione's right. We need to look into any potential suspect."

"I'm already on Fudge," Harry supplied. "I'll dig a bit deeper, and maybe even investigate his office. He's got several big meetings scheduled for tomorrow so as long as the bull pen isn't too crowded, I should be able to find an opportunity to break in."

"That's that sorted then," Draco decided with a perfunctory nod toward Harry.

"So, what are we supposed to do about Crouch?" Graham asked. He scoffed into his next sip of tea. "It's not like Draco can just waltz into the man's office and snoop around like Potter and Fudge."

"Draco isn't the only one with access to the offices in Westminster," Theo pointed out, wagging his eyebrows at Graham.

"There's no way the lot of you are going to break into Westminster," reprimanded Narcissa. At Theo's attempt at a response, she cut him off with a finger and added, "_Neither_ are you going to walk around as civilians without drawing attention to yourselves, which means there's no viable way for you to gain access to the office."

"What I was going to say," pouted Theo, "was that _Hermione_ will be able to break into Crouch's office."

"_Come again?_" Hermione blinked furiously, not sure whether she heard him right. "There's no way I'm going to–"

"That's brilliant," said Draco, and Hermione instantly snapped her mouth shut then turned to glare at him. "You're the only one who regularly enters Westminster with me," he pointed out. "It wouldn't be unusual for you to join me at work tomorrow, and while I'm shut up in the Chamber with Crouch for a few hours, you'll have plenty of time to break in and peruse his office for any indication of his involvement."

"You're out of your mind," she breathed.

"No, I'm not." Draco insisted. "You've proven yourself more than capable of something like this – _and_ I mean that as a compliment."

* * *

As leader of the Death Eaters and head of the family, Draco's word was law; therefore, Hermione reluctantly accepted the fact that within twenty-four hours she would be accompanying Draco to work and snooping around a high-profile parliament member's office. The others were curious as to where their skills could be of assistance, but Draco ensured them that they needed to go about their usual routines in order to keep up appearances; no one could know that anything was out of the ordinary tomorrow.

Thus, the next morning, Narcissa and Pansy set off upstairs to continue with Malfoy Company Limited work; that week they would be finalizing several contracts around the city for the installation of new housing (as a side business, they often maintained Nott Holdings as most of their work was interconnected). Daphne was stressed with the upcoming charity gala so, she and Blaise – the board's treasurer – buckled down on their incredibly long list of tasks to complete within the next three months; this year it would _not_ be held at Malfoy Manor, much to Narcissa's immense relief. Graham went about his business as usual – tending to the orphanages and betting shops – with Vince and Greg to assist him; both business avenues would be implementing further precautions against any offensive attacks.

After Draco voiced some additional concerns regarding the New Order, because he hadn't heard from Ginny yet, Theo and Malcolm – both with set mouths and furrowed brows – were assigned to check up on them.

Since Luna and her men were still camping out at Malfoy Manor, both as hired protection by Draco for the family as well as for their own protection against Alecto Carrow, it meant that Astoria – the only member of the family not to have a strict schedule for the day – was assigned to keep an eye on them rather than leave the house unattended for most of the day (normally more of them would be around from time to time so this wasn't a daily concern).

Harry headed off to work, taking his typical long route in order to avoid any tails or obvious signs that he'd come from the Manor. Hermione waved farewell to him and offered good luck as she slid into the backseat behind Draco; the car lurched forward and raced down the drive a moment later with Dobby behind the wheel. It was an uneasy drive; Dobby didn't drive very often, and he wasn't very good, but Hermione kept one hand tight on the handle and the other in Draco's.

"Good morning, Ludo," Draco greeted as the two of them entered the building.

"Oh! Morning, Draco," Lord Bagman replied; his gaze was unsteady, constantly scanning the busy hall. "Long day ahead of us, eh? Oh! Miss Granger," he said, seemingly registering her presence beside Draco at last. "I would have thought you would be much too busy to accompany Draco to work – You'd make a formidable wife, Miss Granger. Oh! – Running the company now, aren't you? Well, I suppose some women can vote now so – At least they aren't invading our Chambers yet, eh Draco?" He chuckled to himself, then once again gave a nervous scan of the hall. "I better get going. Good day to you both!"

Hermione let out a deep breath and willed her facial expression not to display how agitated Lord Bagman's commentary made her.

"Ignore him," Draco murmured in her ear. "That's what I do." His hand found the small of her back as he led them through the crowded hall; he occasionally nodded to colleagues or muttered a quick greeting. "Alright," he said once they left the main hall and headed up the stairs to his office floor. "I know Theo and I volunteered you for this job, but if you aren't comfortable, we can find another way–"

"No," Hermione sighed. "It's fine, really. I _am_ the most capable of pulling this ridiculous ordeal off. How long will I have again?"

"A few hours, perhaps even half of the workday." Draco shrugged, then glanced at his pocket watch. "I don't have to be in the Chamber for another hour, but then who knows when we'll be released." He sat down in one of the sofas rather than behind his desk, and Hermione followed suit by sitting in the sofa opposite. "Thank you for doing this. I know I don't say that enough, but – Well, I know how hard returning to Westminster must be for you."

"I thought it would be difficult," Hermione agreed, "but I think it felt worse sitting at home while you went back to work. I never slept well when you stayed late. I kept expecting the phone to ring with horrible news."

Draco stared, unblinking.

Hermione dug out a cigarette, needing something to do with her hands, then held out the pack; the offering brought Draco back to life, and he took one with a muttered, "Thank you," then lit both his and hers.

"I have to admit I – I was selfishly pleased when you didn't join me at work over the past year." He paused, exhaled a cloud of smoke, then went on. "Not because I didn't want to put you in any unnecessary danger – though that is true – but mostly because I knew your contact with Tom Riddle would be limited, if nonexistent. If you weren't here to roam about the halls, then you weren't able to continue seeing him."

"You know about that?"

Draco nodded, though Hermione was shocked to see guilt rather than anger play across his face.

"Why didn't you ever say anything – or _do_ anything?"

He shrugged, taking a long drag. "It wasn't my place. We were unhappy – _I _made you unhappy. If I love you – truly love you as I claim I do – then I needed to accept that a man might exist who makes you happy and can give you everything I can't. Of course, I _loathed_ that that man was Tom Riddle but…" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and raking his hands through his silvery blond hair. "I'll let you go if that's what you want – if _he's _who you want. I'll stop this – It's why you didn't say it back I get it – You can go, I don't care what Astoria will do to me–"

"Draco, _stop_," she shouted, cutting him off. His head snapped up, and his stormy, troubled gaze met hers. "I don't love Riddle. I – It was never like that – We never – I mean." Hermione sighed. "I'm not going anywhere. I choose you, you stupid, wonderful man." Hermione shifted to sit beside him, then cupped his cheek and gave him a wayward grin. "I choose you, Draco. I love _you_."

A rush of electricity sparked in the air between them; the promise of a mended, lasting love drifted lazily across their equally relieved facial expressions, and the inevitability of a kiss to seal their fate pulled them closer and closer and _closer_ until –

"Lord Malfoy," trilled a slightly obnoxious voice from the office door, and in the threshold stood a tall, peaky redheaded man. "Oh, my apologies for the intrusion, I didn't realize–"

"Yes," cut in Draco with a narrowed gaze. "Miss Granger has graciously decided to join me today. I take it you're standing in my doorway to tell me that the meeting is about to begin?" The man nodded meekly, clutching his clipboard tightly to his narrow chest. "If that is all, Percy, then please leave us. Also, there will be no need to hover over Miss Granger today; she has her own business to attend to." The man nodded again, then vanished in the blink of an eye.

Hermione turned to Draco, smirking. "Who was that?"

"My assistant," he replied. "I hired him just after the attack last year when all of my work just kept piling up."

"How rude of Parliament to continue to assign you work in the midst of a personal-adjacent trauma," she joked, shaking her head at him. Draco rolled his eyes, but his lips betrayed him by pulling marginally upwards into a fleeting smile. Hermione waved her hand toward the now-vacant doorway and added, "Was he–"

"A Weasley?" Draco answered, guessing her inquiry. Hermione nodded, and he stood, holding out a hand for her; she took it and followed him out into the hall. "Yes, Percy is one of the several Weasley children, and he's actually quite the gifted assistant, though don't tell anyone else that. I would never be able to live it down if anyone knew."

"For all that you complain about the New Order, Draco, you are quite fond of them." He glowered at her comment, but Hermione went on grinning. "My sweet, soft summer prince."

"Lord," he corrected with a gentle nudge.

"How could I forget," she mocked. They walked on for a bit, taking the long way toward the Chamber, and Hermione was just about to ask where they were going when Draco stopped short at a crossway. Suddenly, Hermione recalled what she was even at Westminster to do. "This is where Crouch's office is?"

"Yes," Draco said, inclining his head down the right corridor. "His office is on the end. It's gregariously big – you can't miss it." He bent to kiss her forehead, then turned down the left corridor. "See you later,"

"Bye," she muttered as he made a turn and his silvery blond head disappeared down another corridor.

The clock on the wall struck noon, and its chimes echoed throughout the enormous office, startling Hermione from where she crouched under the desk; every drawer had already been emptied – its contents thoroughly perused – and replaced in exactly the same place. In fact, every possible surface, hiding place, and nook and cranny were searched so, Hermione was at the point where her mind imagined where a criminal mastermind might possibly be hiding information; her solution: a false back in the desk.

"Bloody hell," she swore, rolling back on her sore knees and slowly getting to her feet. She glared at the clock, now echoing its twelfth chime, and hurried towards the door of the office. Hermione was lucky enough to not have to get rid of an assistant – Percy unknowingly already took care of that – but she didn't want to push her luck through lunch; as Speaker of the House, she couldn't see him offering to take lunch in the chamber rather than the quiet sanctuary of his office. "Well, that was fucking useless," she muttered to herself as she headed back down the winding corridors to Draco's office.

And it was; she found nothing.

As much as Hermione wanted to say _I told you so _to Draco and Theo, she also didn't want to disappoint them; hopefully Harry found something worthwhile in Fudge's office.

Exhausted from sneaking around all morning and tired of constantly thinking about this mysterious mastermind targeting Draco and his Death Eaters – and consequently her, her lifestyle and friends – Hermione leaned into the budding headache; the fuzziness in her head was a welcome relief from her spiraling theorizing. Her stomach rumbled, but the potential promise of a quiet lunch with Draco in his office was more ravishing.

After all they've been through, Hermione was grateful for where they stood now, and – selfishly, if a little embarrassingly – her mind drifted to hands and lips and orgasms… it had been _too_ _long_ since she'd had any of that; Draco kept his intentions with wanting their first time (again) to mean something, and he hadn't pushed her for anything physical. Sometimes, though, Hermione wished he would take advantage of her, but then again, she had only _just_ made it clear that she loved him that morning.

Plus, there was the insecurity she had no idea Draco lived with this whole time: her dalliance with Tom.

_Tom_.

Hermione stilled. Her hand froze on Draco's office door, and she stepped back to crane her neck down the hall at Tom's office door. "He fits," she muttered to herself. "He fucking fits _perfectly_," and her pulse raced as she glanced back and forth the two mahogany doors thirty meters apart. If Draco wasn't back for lunch, then Tom would still be out, too. But how long did she have until they came back?

Throwing caution to the wind, Hermione scurried down the hall and slid into Tom's office.

The dim lighting and incense burning in the corner immediately revolted her, reminding her of the last (and only other) time she stood in this office, but then another memory jumped out at her; it was vague, she couldn't exactly remember what it was that she stole, but Hermione covertly slipping a parchment into her coat solidified her gut feeling. Tom was guilty; Tom was _it._

A sickly feeling sank into the bottom of her stomach, and Hermione braced herself against the desk. When did all of this madness begin… hadn't it been the very attack at Westminster after she rejected Tom and chose Draco?

Scanning the papers that piled up on his desk, the books that were crammed into his bookcases, and behind the expensive paintings decorating his office, Hermione's heart pounded murderously in her chest, threatening to break her ribs; her pulse was now in her throat, which was dry and panting.

There had to be something here – there _had_ to be.

The more Hermione thought about it, the more certain she was that Tom was behind everything; his demeaner reminded her of Draco when they first met, and he turned out to be the leader of a notoriously vicious and violent gang so, was it so insane to believe Tom could have a similar hidden persona?

Voices outside jerked Hermione back to the present; she was about to be found out.

Hermione hurried to stuff the papers in her hands back in the drawer they came from, then sprinted to the door –

Too late. The handle was turning; someone, and she had a horrible feeling she knew exactly who, was about to walk in and see her standing in the middle of a slightly upturned office.

_Fuck_.

She had two options; one was to play innocent and pretend like she was waiting for Tom in his office under the premise of wanting to see him again after their year apart, and the other one was to find an impossible place to hide and hope she could escape at the earliest convenience. In the back of her head, an image of Luna scowling and offering up a third, more violent option startled her, and Hermione then had no choice but to hide behind the coat rack by the door; she didn't have time to come up with a speech longing for him or find a better hiding spot, like under the desk.

_Fuckfuckfuck_.

Tom strode through the door with the confidence of a minor god, then paused mid-unbuttoning his suit jacket; he turned his head slowly from left to right, and Hermione knew his steel blue eyes were narrowed, scanning the office for something – for _her_. He lifted his trousers, then squatted down to look under the desk (Hermione counted her blessings that she didn't choose to hide under there) and used the opportunity to slip out of the office door, luckily catching it before it fully closed so it only thudded once – behind her when she emerged into the hall.

Hermione, unfortunately, immediately backed into someone and panicked but, fortunately, the person she ran into was none other than Draco. She exhaled loudly, clutching her chest, and ushered him away from Tom's office as quickly as she could; she was sure any minute now he would check the hall for potential culprits and see them.

"What the hell?" He said to her once they reached the safety of his office. "What were you _doing_ in Riddle's office, Hermione?"

"It's not–" She gasped for breath, waving away his hurtful expression. "Draco, It's not what you think. I wasn't – I think he's behind everything. I was looking for evidence and–"

"Are you _mad?_" Draco hissed. "You could have been caught and then–" He cut himself off, dragging his palm down his mouth, then took a deep inhale and exhale. "While I'm thrilled you aren't jumping at the first opportunity to continue your… whatever… with Riddle, I sincerely doubt he is the one organizing attacks against us."

"How can you be sure?"

"How can _you?_"

She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Don't you trust me?"

Draco sighed, and his expression softened considerably. "I do. You know I do, Hermione." He collapsed against the sofa and poured himself a full glass of whiskey despite it being only halfway through the workday. "What did you find?"

"Well… Nothing, but–"

"Bloody hell,"

* * *

"Listen, Hermione, we know you're talented and we want to believe you," – "Speak for yourself," – "but there's no evidence that Riddle is involved at all, whereas Fudge has clear connections." Harry said, resting his hand over hers and giving her a forlorn smile.

"Harry, I would have thought that _you _would have understood what I'm–"

"I do," he insisted. "But sometimes gut-feelings are wrong… I would never have believed the police were involved in the attack on you and Malfoy at Westminster, but the evidence was damning." Harry glanced to Theo and Draco for help, but both remained cleverly silent on the matter.

"There's no guarantee Slughorn was acting of his own accord. He could have been blackmailed by Ri–"

"Hermione," Theo reprimanded.

"I agree with her," Draco said. When Theo scoffed and muttered something unintelligible under his breath, Draco ignored this and went on. "Slughorn was a devoted friend of my father's, and consequently has been nothing but loyal to me and my mother. If he had access to the guns–"

"He _literally_ checked them out just for the weekend and Harry pointed out that there weren't any open cases at the time requiring that much firepower,"

"– then he wouldn't have approved of what they were used for. There's no way he's involved."

"I know you don't want to believe it, Draco," said Theo, "but it _is_ possible that he was responsible for the attack, even if he didn't pull the trigger himself. He had to have known what the weapons were for, and he's not on our payroll so, he could have also turned on your family,"

"He _wouldn't_," insisted Draco unkindly.

A silence lingered in the air between the four of them, then finally Harry spoke up.

"There's something else," he said. His emerald green eyes avoided Theo, instead focusing on the fire crackling before them, lighting up the small sitting room. "Scabior cleared the schedules for Malfoy's coppers to backup Theo, and," – now he looked at Theo – "when you went to talk to Ginny and the others, McLaggen told you they were called away for an emergency meeting, right?" Theo nodded, but his eyes narrowed warily. "Slughorn called the meeting – about five minutes after Malfoy called Scabior if my calculations were correct."

Another beat of silence.

"Well," drawled Draco. "Evidently, none of the coppers are under our control anymore. Scabior cannot be trusted." He sipped at the spiced liquor in his hand. "Not that he was ever that trustworthy," he added under his breath, shaking his head.

"Fucking scum, the lot of them," Theo muttered, then glanced at Harry and rolled his eyes. "Obviously not _you_, Potter."

Hermione's mind reeled.

"I still don't understand… Slughorn has no motive, and if he is involved, then that still doesn't explain the missing boys and Barty Crouch Junior." She sighed. "There was nothing in his father's office today. With all of his positive press following the supposed disappearance of his wayward son, it's hard to believe he doesn't have something to do with it, but there wasn't even a scrap of evidence that they were in communication, much less plotting anything."

They talked in circles for another hour or so, then retired to bed.

"May I join you tonight?" Draco asked when they reached the landing of the main staircase; his bedroom was down the hallway on this floor, while Hermione's was downstairs on the ground floor. "We don't have to – Err – I just wanted to hold you." He set his jaw, then began to backtrack. "Unless you regret what you said earlier–"

"No," she interrupted with a flushing smile. "No, I don't regret what I said at all and, actually, that sounds nice." Hermione took his hand in hers and walked with him downstairs to her bedroom; they stripped down to their underpants, then crawled under the summer duvet with cheeky smiles. "I love you, Draco," she murmured, curling her hand under his chin to meet his eyes; they shone a beautiful, iridescent silver in the waning moonlight.

"I love you, Hermione – with every fiber in my body and every part of my soul."

They held each other close, limbs intertwined, and whispered _I love you_ over and over again, blushing and reveling in the magic of the sentiment as it sent tingles up and down their bodies; it was pure and light, unlike the first time either of them said it all those years ago.

_Look at what you made me –_

_I loathe you –_

_Show me how much you hate me –_

_Fuck you –_

_I love you. I fucking love you._

* * *

Hermione couldn't sleep.

The man beside her, the love of her life, slept soundly, but her mind would not settle; it continued to fire and spark and run at the speed of light. Before long, the sun rose over the horizon and cast an unwelcome harsh light around the bedroom; Hermione scowled, blinked, then reluctantly slid off the mattress and tip-toed into the bathroom.

The bath filled slowly; she was conscious of Draco still sound asleep but two meters away and didn't want to wake him so, the tap dribbled warm water into the tub rather than flooding it. Finally, the water rose high enough for her to slip in, but seconds after Hermione made herself comfortable, Winky burst into the bedroom.

"Good morning, Miss – Ah!"

Hermione winced.

"What the–"

"Winky is so sorry, Master Malfoy! Winky wasn't knowing Master Malfoy was here!"

"It's alright, Winky," came a groggy, low voice. Hermione sniggered, then sunk lower in the bubbles, smirking to herself. Draco padded into the bathroom with Winky on his heels, still apologizing profusely. "Good morning," he smirked.

Hermione grinned mercilessly. "Morning," she muttered.

"Winky is _so sorry_, Miss. Winky would never wish to intrude – Oh – Winky is such a bad servant. How could she not _know_ – Oh, dear," the poor woman whimpered.

"Winky," said Hermione softly. "It's quite alright. I should have left a note so as not to frighten you. Are you alright to prep my coat? I want to–" Hermione stopped talking and stared at the far wall; an epiphany struck like lightning. "Oh my _god_," she gasped.

In one swift motion, Hermione leapt out of the tub – splashing Draco and Winky in the process – and bolted across the room to her wardrobe. She fished through the hanging coats, then dug through the drawers when she still couldn't find what she was looking for.

"What on earth are you doing?" Draco asked.

"It has to be here," she muttered. "I haven't worn it since – Where is it? – It has to be – _Aha!_" She squealed, then held up a wrapped packaged before an amused Draco and a stunned Winky. Without explaining, Hermione placed the package on the bed and ripped it open; its contents were a posh business outfit and a light, summer coat – every article of clothing no longer stained with blood but still ripped to shreds. "Yes!" She exclaimed. "Look!"

Draco took the proffered parchment and unfolded it, then frowned. "I don't understand."

"It's a blueprint of one of your orphanages," she said, beaming.

He frowned. "Yes, I can see that. But why–"

"I took this from Tom's office last year. This is it, Draco! This is the evidence I didn't know I already had on him," she said. "Don't you see? Why else would he have a _blueprint_ of your orphanage – It must have something to do with the missing boys. See? They were all missing from the same orphanage," Hermione breathed. "_This one._"

Her excitement hummed all the way through her morning routine – especially because Draco seemed unable to explain why Riddle would have the blueprint for any legal reason – until Narcissa squashed it; like a bug.

"Of course, Riddle has blueprints of that orphanage. He has blueprints for all of them," she began. "Malfoy Company Limited works very closely with his company, self-named, and he was commissioned for work on these buildings, but ultimately we chose another vendor – for financial reasons," Narcissa added with a pointed glare at Hermione. "Not for personal reasons."

"But he knows about Draco's association with the Death Eaters! _He's _the one who proposed Draco for the assassination of that communist in the first place," she argued.

"I told you, none of the men involved with that singular opportunity would be connected in any of these crimes. It's far below their status, for one thing, and it clashes with their interest in the Death Eaters, for another." Narcissa said primly, handing the paper back to Hermione with an arched brow. "If Lord Riddle wanted to use Draco and the Death Eaters to rid the city of communists and other scum _legally_, then why would he entertain the thought of destroying them, hm?"

Hermione wanted to continue arguing, but Draco steered her away from Narcissa.

"That's enough,"

"How can she say that?" Hermione gaped, aghast. "You believe me, don't you? Riddle _has_ to be the one who–"

"You know I believe you. I just – She does have a point." He confessed.

Hermione paused in the corridor; he stopped shortly, turning to frown at her. "You go on," she said, waving him away. "I'll catch up in a minute." He arched a silver brow, doubting her, and Hermione sighed. "I'll be right there. I'm just going to… put this away," she lied lamely, holding up the folded blueprint.

Draco hesitated but reluctantly nodded, then continued toward breakfast without her.

She doubled back down the hallway and hid behind a marble bust until Narcissa stepped out of her office a few moments later; she slipped into the space quietly as the other woman turned the corner. Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that Narcissa was hiding something. Her acceptance of Tom's innocence was given too readily in Hermione's opinion, and, business partners or not, she believed there had been no objective thought on the other woman's part, which was typical but unsettling. Why would she appear to be _on_ Tom's side?

The answer to that question lie in the carefully curated company books.

Narcissa claimed the company chose a different vendor for their architectural project, and they had, but as Hermione perused the financial statements, her eye caught on several pages where projects Hermione knew to be nonexistent were paid to a company called Voldemort Incorporated; each containing a shockingly large sum.

There was something odd about those payments, but Hermione couldn't see how this possibly illegal activity in the company books related to Riddle and his vengeance on the Death Eaters so, she accepted defeat for the time being and hurried out of the office before someone noticed her absence at breakfast; she would have to return to investigate more another day.

* * *

By mid-June, the air was thick and moist, every inch of exposed skin sticky with sweat, and Hermione was no closer at piecing anything together; her every waking moment spent wandering the halls and gardens of the Manor muttering nonsense to herself, and to the point that even Luna had begun to make the occasional joke about her behavior; every night worse as she tossed aimlessly, kicking the covers off and splashing cold water on her face, incapable of turning her mind off.

The only reprieve was Draco's arms wrapped around her every night and morning, with kisses of reassurance and trust sprinkled throughout the madness. Even though they now slept together every night, they still hadn't had sex since reconnecting; there was an unspoken agreement that waiting for the right time was still in effect, and that this was decidedly _not_ it.

"Oh, fuck me," Hermione swore in the vanity mirror, turning to grimace at the red material that clung to her body. "Winky, are you sure you can't drive me?"

"Winky is not knowing how to drive, Miss. It would be Winky's honor, of course, to help Miss, but Mistress Malfoy requested Winky see Miss Pansy and Miss Daphne at once."

"Yes, alright." She sighed. Hermione loathed having to resort to asking Dobby to drive; namely because of his loyalty to Draco, though his horrendous driving was certainly a factor, as well. Still, it was better than asking Kreacher. "Dobby," she said once she climbed into the backseat of the sleek black car, "if you so much as utter a word of this to Draco, then I will set Luna loose on you."

"Oh, but Miss Lovegood is lovely woman. She is very kind to Dobby, and always–"

"Alright, never mind! I'll – I'll find some other way to punish you, do you understand?" He nodded meekly, then started the engine and drove off into the sunset. Hermione did not actually want to punish Dobby – she wasn't heartless – but she was terrified of Draco finding out what she was up to tonight.

There was a bright flash as Hermione stepped out of the car and up to the mansion on the top of the hill, but she didn't dare look back; speculation about who the woman was visiting the wealthy, young, and handsome lord was better than confirmation.

A tall man with yellowed, pointed teeth opened the door for her; he sneered down at her, demanding her name and reason for visiting without an invitation. His speech was guttural and – paired with his physical features – made him appear almost wolf like.

"Move, Greyback. I wish to give our guest a proper greeting,"

Hermione tensed, then forced her shoulders and expression to relax; she painted a serene smile across her face, then tucked a loose curl nervously behind her ear. "Hello, Tom. Good evening," she breathed. "I hope I'm not intruding, but I was wondering if you wouldn't mind a quick chat?"

Tom's eyes glinted.

His demeaner as intimidating as she recalled, and the fury flashing in the deep blue of his eyes darkened them to a shade like that of the deep, endless abyss of the night sky. For a solid moment, Hermione thought perhaps her suicidal idea was, in fact, about to result in her death; Tom looked particularly murderous staring down at her over the threshold. Finally, he stepped aside and swept a hand outward to welcome her in, "Please," he said, smiling ominously, "Come in, Hermione."

The cold, finality of death crept up her spine and Hermione briefly wondered if she sealed her fate as she stepped into the mansion. Tom the Reaper. If he knew the reason she was here, or what she'd done the past year, then surely, she was a dead woman walking.

Oh well.

Too late to turn back now.

Hermione was going off the deep end either way so, she decided to jump headfirst.

"Tell me, Hermione," breathed Tom in a surprisingly calm tone. "What can I do for you?" He led her into a quaint sitting room, and she chose to sit beside him on a loveseat facing the hearth, whose flames roared and crackled, warming her toes.

"I need your help, Tom," she exhaled, tasting the words on her lips like a confession; in a way, they were. Hermione was worried the entire drive over here how she would handle this – how being in Tom's presence after so long would make her feel. Would it make what she had to do that much harder? Or, easier? Turns out, they were more of the latter. Every word a confession, every touch a sin, and when their eyes locked, she didn't find it very difficult to worship him at all.

"I need your help," Hermione repeated, boldly reaching for his hand. He didn't pull away. "I need to get away from the Malfoys." When Tom didn't react, she went on. "I made a mistake, Tom. I should have never left you. Get me out of there, please. Break me free. Make me yours."

Hermione's chest rose and fell rapidly; her breathing incredibly labored.

Tom blinked; the cold, chilling glint in his eyes didn't waver. "Why now? I haven't seen or heard from you for over a year."

"I – I tried. I couldn't – They wouldn't let me leave the house, Tom!" She wailed, desperate now. "Please, you have to believe me. As much as I wanted to come to you, to be with _you_, I couldn't. I'm stuck." She blinked rapidly, tears welling and threatening to fall. "I need your help."

"What would you have me do?"

She sniffled. "I don't want you to get hurt. They'll come for us, Tom. We have to be smart about this. I know we can outsmart them. I know we can, but we have to do it _slowly_."

"I want you, Hermione," he finally said. "You know I do. I would gladly kill a man for you, but… I see your point. You are as clever and beautiful as I remember," Tom confessed, trailing his rough knuckles down the side of her face. "I do not wish to be the most hated man in all of Britain. I will not be blamed for your separation from the beloved Malfoys." He tilted his head, studying her. "I agree, we must be careful. I will save you, of course I will, but we must take it slowly. Step by step."

"Step by step," Hermione repeated in assent. "Break me free. Make me yours."

"Mine," he agreed; this time, his lip curled up into a wicked grin.

* * *

Dobby drove Hermione back to Malfoy Mansion that evening, though late enough that she would have been surprised to see anyone still awake, and she was not surprised to see the house dark and deserted upon her arrival. It had taken a lot of effort to convince Tom that it was in their best interest for her to return to Malfoy Manor; firstly, they would immediately become suspicious of her absence, and secondly, it would be best for her to be seen by the press leaving his mansion – however late – the same evening rather than the next morning.

However, her late arrival meant she'd missed dinner.

Already, Hermione was regretting taking Dobby because _his_ absence in the kitchen had likely been noted by several, if not all, of those when their favorite Sunday roast wasn't prepared.

She wandered into the kitchen and immediately searched the cabinets for a suitable meal; her hand closed around a packet of biscuits when there was a subtle scoff emanating from behind her. Hermione leapt comically into the air, and half of the supplies in the cabinet crashed to the floor around her.

Luna laughed maniacally.

"You're such a fucking klutz," she leered. "Fucking hell,"

"You scared the _shite_ out of me," Hermione gasped, clutching a hand to her chest. "What the actual _fuck_, Luna?"

"Hm," she grunted, suddenly becoming serious; though, a moment later she sniffed at the air around Hermione and frowned. "I thought you were fucking cleverer than that, Granger, for fuck's sake."

"What are you talking about?"

"Where you just came from, obviously." Luna rolled her eyes, then snatched the biscuits rudely from Hermione's grasp. She tossed one in her mouth, glared, then continued as Hermione grimaced. "Your fucking massive brain is a fucking _waste_," she spat. "I fucking believed it… I really fucking believed that you knew what you were fucking doing. But fuck do I know? Apparently, _not shite_. Fucking Nothing! You're supposed to fucking know, Granger. You know far more than you realize, and still, here you fucking are making terrible fucking moves like a _fucking rookie_."

Hermione stuttered, glancing around the dim kitchen for help. There was none.

"Are you a fucking rookie, Granger? Eh? Are you?"

"No–"

"No! Fuck no! That's fucking right, Granger! You're no fucking rookie so, what are you fucking doing running around in the middle of the night with Tom bloody fucking Riddle, eh? Get your fucking shite together."

"Wait – How did you–"

"Oh, fuck off," Luna barked.

"_Hey_–"

"Listen to me, Hermione fucking Granger," Luna hissed. "While you're playing his game, he's thinking ten moves ahead – _ten fucking moves ahead _ – with checkmate already in sight." Then, without another word or repulsive sneer, Luna stormed through the kitchen door and left Hermione, once again, standing shellshock with her mind scrambled.

Unfortunately, Luna's eerie warning was far more haunting than her senseless riddles.

_While you're playing his game, he's thinking ten moves ahead with checkmate already in sight._

* * *

**A/N - **Thank you _so much_ for your kind words of encouragement and patience during these crazy times. I hope to have the next chapter ready for you much sooner, though the length and complexity is definitely taking more time to write compared to the original story. Out of curiosity, do any of you listen to the songs I use for each chapter (to find the specific lines or otherwise)? Let me know, and stay safe xx

This chapter title comes from Meek Mill's song _Believe_ feat. Justin Timberlake, from the lines _let's play it smart, __'cause we ain't playing checkers / this is chess, play your pawns / sit back like a king, when they move, make your mark_


	6. Demons

**Chapter 6: Demons**

* * *

_7 May 1929_

_WEDDING OF THE DECADE: _

_THE LOVE STORY OF MISS GRANGER AND LORD MALFOY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_It is well-known that Lord Malfoy employed Miss Granger as an assistant as early as 1920, thus giving a direct timeline of their initial relationship even though they did not begin dating until well into 1924 according to anonymous sources. Still, their relationship was not made public until the end of that year when Lord Malfoy announced his intent to run for a seat in Parliament – in the same motion, he would be stepping back from his role as CEO of Malfoy Company Limited. He, once again, would be handing the company over to his mother, Narcissa Malfoy née Black, who ran the company for her late husband, Lucius Malfoy, when he set off to fight in the Great War. Though, Mrs. Malfoy has since been –_

I refuse to read the rest of that paragraph. Call it guilt, if you will, but Rita Skeeter had no right to drag Narcissa's ill-fate into this article.

_I believe I speak for the nation when I say that we were shocked to see young Miss Granger accompany her boss (and then boyfriend!) to his famed announcement._

_However, Lord Draco Malfoy has always been quick to credit much of his success in the House of Lords to his future wife. Of course, it is normal to question this since Lord Malfoy is an exceptionally humble, intelligent and caring young man. His career in Parliament has been as driven and victorious as anything else he set his mind to – including both his service in the Great War and personal accomplishments for Malfoy Company Limited. A few of the notable bills passed through the House of Lords by Lord Malfoy are the Finance Act (1926-29), Trade Facilities Act (1926), Representation of the People (Equal Franchise) Act (1928), and Age of Marriage Act (1929)._

_True – Miss Granger's role as COO of Malfoy Company Limited is widely accepted as successful due to her ambitious goals and consistent ability to achieve them. Not to mention, the several of the speeches delivered at Lord Malfoy's annual pet organization, Charity Fundraiser for Children in Need – originally established by his late father in 1900 – were accredited to Miss Granger despite being almost exclusively delivered by Lord Malfoy. _

_The trust Lord Malfoy bestowed upon Miss Granger is evident over the years and it is clear, after studying the mutual success of the couple (especially in their respective careers) that the trust was justly earned on Miss Granger's end._

Trust… interesting choice of wording considering that was possibly the one aspect of our relationship that was constantly tested.

Nevertheless, it prevailed – or else I suppose I wouldn't be getting married to Draco tomorrow.

While this section of the article was shockingly accurate and disturbingly praiseful (for both Draco and I, though the latter of the two being the most incredulous for everyone) I would like to take an additional moment to reflect on the amazing work Draco has done through his time in Parliament. Though, I _did_ have a heavy hand in the achievement of two of the four aforementioned notable bills passed, which Draco kindly credited me with, and Rita, true to form, thoroughly ignored.

I probably don't have to tell you which acts I'm referring to, do I?

As Theo likes to constantly remind me, I am too socialist and liberal for my own good; likewise, Harry mocks my fondness of voicing for those who are consistently overlooked in government, but I don't care. Now, thanks to me – and by that, I mean thanks to my incessant nagging – suffrage was widened by giving women electoral equality with men, and the minimum required age of marriage was raised to sixteen so as to crack down on child marriages throughout the Commonwealth.

I'd say that's a bloody good job done.

Unfortunately, while I was splitting my time between trying to prove Tom was responsible for the slow demise of the Death Eaters and pushing Draco to fight for these acts in the House, I severely missed the signs that Tom had already declared checkmate.

Luna would, of course, say _I fucking told you so_ and she would be fucking right.

If nothing goes according to plan tomorrow (because, let's be honest, when does it _ever_ go according to plan?) then it'll be a miracle if any of us not only survive the wedding, but also avoid getting arrested… _again_.

* * *

_18 June 1927_

"What the fuck is this?"

Hermione's head snapped up.

She was poring over public records she checked out from the library at Westminster a few weeks ago; there was no mention or evidence that a company called Voldemort Incorporated existed, but every time she pulled out the records, she hoped she would find something she missed the last time. So far, no such luck. Reeling her thoughts away from Narcissa, the company books, and this ghost company, Hermione regarded Draco standing in her bedroom door with a blank expression. It took a moment for her to register the furious glare he wore was due to the black and white photograph he held in his hand. It looked newly printed, as if it was taken from its drying stage before it was completed.

"Draco?"

"What the fuck is this?" He repeated, storming across the room. He loomed over where she was sprawled across the bed, surrounded by various documents, and thrust the photograph in front of her; she glanced down, then immediately sat up, eyes bulging. The image was a bit underexposed – it wasn't a high-quality shot – but it was nonetheless very clear what the image was portraying: a woman with wild, bushy curls striding up to a gated mansion.

"It's not what it–"

"Looks like?" Draco growled. "Seriously? _It's not what it looks like?_ Huh," he scoffed with a sinister curl of his lip, "I wonder where I've heard something along that line before. Oh, that's fucking right, that would be the last time you were caught sneaking around with Riddle!"

Hermione reached for his hand, but he pulled away from her reach; he was fuming.

"I know you're hurt, but if you would just listen to me," she pleaded, then abruptly stopped as Draco spun around to face her again. It had been so long since she'd seen him lose his temper that she forgot how horrible it was; how it transformed his beautiful face into that of a fallen angel.

"Hurt?" He hissed. "I'm beyond hurt, I – I trusted you again! You asked me to trust you, and _I did_. Like a bloody fool! I trusted you when you said it was over between you and Riddle. What's worse is, not only did I trust you, but I believed you. I actually _believed_ you were telling me the truth – when you said it was over, that it was nothing, that you loved _me_…" He paced the length of her room, face growing redder with every ragged breath. "You knew what I wanted to hear and like a lovesick fucking _fool_ I believed you! You never loved me, did you? It was always a ploy to get back to _him_–"

"_Draco!_"

Hermione screamed his name again and threw a pillow at his pacing figure until he stopped dead in his tracks and finally turned to face her; his expression froze, momentarily caught between blind fury and disbelief. She huffed, holding another pillow in her hand, then dropped it onto the bed. Sliding off the bed, Hermione held up her palms toward him defensively and approached cautiously and calmly; taking advantage of his silence and vulnerability, she readied herself for the reignition of his temper when she began to explain herself.

"Draco," she murmured; the silence that hung in the air between them made it seem as though she was speaking at a far louder decibel than reality. "You're right." Hermione inhaled, then exhaled deeply. Her brown eyes never wavered from his grey ones; they were as dark and stormy as his mood. "That _is_ me in the photo, going to Riddle's mansion, but I can explain–"

"_Explain?_" He spat. "You think I want to hear your explanation – the reason you're leaving me for him–"

"Please," she cut in quickly. "Listen to me. Please, it's not what you think."

"How dare you use that fucking line–"

"_Draco Lucius Malfoy,_" she snapped, now glaring at him; her hands, which had been raised defensively, now lowered to grip onto his upper arms with a strength that surprised both of them. Finally, the anger in his eyes dissipated (albeit only slightly) so, Hermione hurried to explain. "I didn't go see Riddle because I'm leaving you for him, but I needed him to think that I am because otherwise my plan wouldn't work." She paused, waited for him to erupt, then proceeded when he didn't. "I'm sure he's behind this, but there was nothing in his office in Westminster and the more I think about it, the more I realize that Riddle wouldn't leave any concrete evidence simply lying about his public office. Its unguarded, unlocked, and plenty of people have access to it – which is _exactly_ how I was able to look through it." Hermione shook her head. "He's too smart for that, he would know better than to keep anything of importance there. Even the map I stole was circumstantial, or even less according to your mother."

Draco nodded slowly.

"If any evidence of his involvement in this mess exists, then he would want to keep it well hidden and well protected – like his estate." He realized aloud.

"Yes," she breathed.

"And you needed access to his estate – without him becoming too suspicious of your sudden appearance." Draco went on; his chest began to rise and fall less dramatically as his breathing normalized again.

"Yes," Hermione let go of his arms, taking a step back. "So, you understand?"

"I understand," he confirmed, pursing his lips. "Doesn't mean I bloody fucking like what it means." He paused to stare out the window, then looked back at her. "Why didn't you tell me? I trust you so, why didn't you trust me?"

Hermione winced.

"I should've told you," she admitted.

"Well," he scoffed. "You fucking didn't, did you? Why?"

Hermione bit her lip. "I didn't think you'd believe me – that you'd let me go through with it."

"Ha," coughed Draco, though he very much _wasn't_ laughing. "I can't imagine why I would fucking stop you. Maybe because – if you're right – then your ingenuous plan involves you, the only person who I've ever loved and who _literally _just came back to me, knowingly entering the house of not only the only man I have _ever_ felt threatened by, but also the exact motherfucker intent on the demise of my entire fucking life – including _you_." He finished with another ingenuine laugh and dragged his hand down his mouth, shaking his head at her.

"I didn't say it was foolproof," mumbled Hermione. Then louder, she added, "Right now, this is our only hope for figuring out what Riddle's planning and how to overcome it."

"You still should have _told_ me, for fuck'ssake, Hermione–"

"No," she snapped, "you should have just trusted me instead of barging in here like a bloody toddler in the throes of a bloody temper tantrum, Draco!"

"I do trust you!"

"_No, you don't!_"

Hermione huffed, then picked up a nearby flower vase (full of gardenias Draco picked for her from the garden a few days ago) and hurled it at the wall; it shattered in a spectacular show of blue and white fine china. Narcissa will be furious. Hermione didn't give a single fuck.

"You say you trust me, but you don't, Draco," she said. "I know I lied to you, but we've already been over this – exhausted it, really. It was just a _name_, a stupid, fake birthday, and a fictitious CV. That's it. I told you _everything_ ages ago, and I've repeated it as many times as you liked since, but I can't do it anymore. I've proven myself beyond a shadow of a fucking doubt that I'm _with you_."

"You deliberately kept this from me knowing how I feel about you lying to me–"

"And you lost your temper with me knowing how _I _feel about that!" Hermione countered. She was pressed up against him now, their chests colliding in rhythmic intervals as their erratic breathing tore their lungs open. Hermione clenched her jaw, held her ground, and pressed her palms flat against his chest, then forcefully shoved him away. "I shouldn't have to prove to you over and over and over again, Draco! I've killed for you, killed with you, and nearly died so many times that Nott _lost count_. I kept your secrets, protected them from the fucking coppers that _I used to work for_, and I fucking left them for _you_. Do you know how much faith I had to have in us for me to make that decision? I didn't make it lightly,"

"If you regret it, then by all means, go back," he growled, gripping her wrists to prevent her from hitting him again. Behind the sharp words, however, Hermione could see the pain it caused him to say them. What angered her most, in that moment, was that he wasn't owning up to the pain, but hiding behind it – like a coward.

Hermione was not a coward.

"I don't fucking _want to_," she screamed, breaking free of his grip to wrap her hands around his neck, dragging his mouth down to hers; the kiss was as ferocious and bitter as she imagined it to be, yet she loved the taste of it on her tongue. "I stayed when you treated me like absolute shite, Draco, because I was lost, and I trusted you to come back to me – because I knew the monster you were in those months was a front." He took control of the next frenzied kiss, and when he rolled her bottom lip between his teeth, tugging on it hard, her knees nearly buckled beneath her. A distantly familiar heat rose between her thighs.

It had been so long.

Too long.

Draco exhaled a ragged breath. "The secret of change is to focus all of your energy not on fighting the old, but on building the new," he quoted.

Hermione, however, was not impressed. "Socrates?" She shook her head. "He also said, 'the hottest love has the coldest end', Draco,"

"Not this one," he argued.

"I always trusted you, Draco. I always trusted in _us_, but I couldn't blindly believe in something as naïve as destiny – I needed _you_ to trust _me_, and for you to prove it." She was breathing hard now, clutching onto him to the point that the back of his neck was likely bruised; every inch of her body pressed firmly against his. "I know you love me. I know you worship me. I need to know you trust me. I've earned it," she huffed, breaking away just enough to fix him with a cutting glare.

"I will," he breathed, voice low and sexy; his eyes were no longer dark with anger, but with pure lust. "I will prove that I trust you, Hermione. But first, I am going to fuck you into oblivion," he whispered in her ear; his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, nails digging into her hips. Still, a question hung in the dense air between their lips.

"What are you waiting for?" She panted.

"Permission," he smirked.

"How's this for permission," she teased moments before shoving him backwards again; this time Draco collided with the wall. Hermione strode up to him and took his next breath in hers. She kept one hand curled around the base of his neck, tugging roughly on the short blond strands. With the other hand, she cupped his dick; his immediate intake of breath was sharp and satisfying. "Mine," she growled. "Let me show you how proud I am to be yours,"

"No," he smirked, shifting her hand away and rotating them around in order to pin her against the wall instead. "Let me show you," he breathed; hot, sensual air skating against her neck, causing her hair to stand on end. Another shiver rippled through her body when his breath was replaced by his lips.

Physical touch was a language they both understood so well, and Draco spoke it fluently.

One hand pinned her arms above her head, while the other trailed down her body; his hips pressed against hers kept her firmly flexed against the wall, but reflexively she bowed against them, arching her back as much as she could in the small space because of his godly touch. The line between loving and fucking was thin, but they both knew it so well by now they walked it confidently; evident in the balance of Draco's touch, which was part adoration and part punishment; it was the perfect combination of cruel and arousing.

His finger pads caressed her bare skin, drawing circles around her exposed shoulder and brushing strokes down her craned neck; as if she was a work of art. The same hand would then turn sinister in the blink of an eye, pinching her nipple and rolling it mercilessly between fingertips. By the time Draco teased his way down to the heat between her legs, lingering in the air just above it, Hermione was writhing with want – with need.

"Please," she gasped. "Please, Draco."

"What do you want, Hermione?" He asked, bending his head to press his lips lightly across hers. He kissed her again, gently, then roughly, taking all the air from her lungs in one swift motion. "Tell me what you want me to do,"

"I want you to touch me,"

"Is that all?"

"No," another stifled gasp as his tongue dragged down her chest and his teeth grazed her swollen nipple. "Touch me," she panted, bucking against him again in a desperate attempt for friction. "Love me, too,"

"I do love you."

His touch was innocent; more caressing and soft kisses. Hermione mewed impatiently.

"Is there something else you want me to do, Hermione?" He was good; too fucking good. The need to have him inside her burned so hot and strong now that her throat was dry and eyes were shut, trying to imagine it. "Tell me."

"Fuck me," she begged. "_Please_,"

"Gladly," his voice was gravelly, and his eyes glinted.

Hermione thought she might burst with want, but Draco's dutiful hand attended to her needs without a moment's hesitation; his fingers spread her open, then slid between the slick heat, teasing and curling; she was so close to coming now though that any more friction would send her careening over the edge. Draco, ever the attentive lover, sensed this and brushed his thumb across her clit as he inserted a second finger inside her. A blinding light flashed before her closed lids, and Hermione's legs collapsed beneath the orgasm; he helped her ride it out, all the while propping her up with one arm wrapped around her waist, no longer securing her to the wall. As Hermione fell against him, he slid his fingers out of her and cupped her instead.

"I love your cunt," he murmured in her ear, "it fits right in my hand. I also love the way you feel… the way you taste,"

To prove his point, Draco picked her up and deposited her on the edge of the bed, then dropped to his knees and elbowed her knees apart. His tongue was more pleasurable than his fingers, and Hermione came again in record time. Panting and reeling from the back-to-back orgasms, she propped herself up on her elbows and beckoned him onto the bed with her, determined to repay the favor. She wasn't afraid to get dirty, or embarrassed to act naughty because there was something about him that made her feel like a dangerous woman – like a queen in the streets and a whore in the sheets. Besides, Hermione wasn't concerned about Draco's lack of respect for her because, if anything, that had always been clear.

"Something about you makes me want to do things that I shouldn't," she whispered against his cock, her tongue sliding along its length. "I want to be bad for you," she confessed after swallowing his orgasm and wiping the remnants from her lips before leaning up to kiss him.

A smile crept across his lips. "I want to be good for you."

He rolled them over and laughed into her neck, trailing kisses down it as he hooked her legs over his shoulders; the back of her knees were slick with sweat from the physical exertion they'd already endured, but he didn't seem to mind one bit. Hermione never felt more comfortable or confident in her whole life than wrapped, naked in Draco's arms; he smiled down on her with damp strands of his hair falling around his face and framing it like a golden halo.

The sweet moment flitted away in seconds when friction resumed between their legs, and both gave into a deep, carnal desire to become one.

Sex was sex was sex. But with him it was otherworldly; it always had been, like their love, and Hermione was uniquely reminded of the gravitational pull of the cold planets to the burning sun as they touched and loved and fucked. Fingernails scratched against bare skin, tearing it open with a desperate need to be closer, similar to the destruction caused by a wayward asteroid who flew too close to a lone planet, pulled in by its gravity. Lips brushed where teeth scraped where tongues punished where lips returned to mend, not unlike the tumultuous tides of planetary storms.

For so long they resisted each other's gravitation and convinced themselves it was for the best; that there was a right time to give into their temptations and this wasn't it, that wasn't it, not yet, not yet. The embers of their love grew, in the absence of touch, to a full flame, encompassing all else and blinding them so thoroughly it was a wonder they could see anything outside of each other.

Then again, perhaps, they couldn't.

Because for that entire stormy Sunday, neither of them left that room; in fact, neither left that bed nor each other's arms. Every call went unanswered, and every task went unattended. By late afternoon, Hermione and Draco were no longer fucking each other into oblivion as if the rougher and dirtier they were, the more likely they were to find salvation in each other. By early evening, they were devoted exclusively to love-making, something so soft and pure it was as if the angels themselves had blessed their union.

"Don't stop," murmured Hermione through her sex-crazed curls. She flicked them over her shoulder, then turned to smile up at Draco, who immediately resumed tracing patterns up and down her spine.

"As you wish," he smiled, pressing a quick kiss to her lips, then to her jaw.

"Hm," she hummed happily. Content in their little kingdom. As the exhaustion of her muscles settled in, the numbness of her mind abided, and it returned to its unusually fast pace of sensory processing. "Wait," Hermione said, sitting up and turning fully to look at Draco. He stopped what he was doing to blink at her expectantly. "How did you get that photo in the first place?"

"Photo?"

Hermione pursed her lips and raised her brows as if to say, _Really?_ Then, he nodded his understanding. "Oh," he said, continuing to draw shapes across her bare skin. "That's hardly interesting." Again, Hermione raised her eyebrows. Draco sighed. "One of the Creevey brothers. He's in the New Order, and he works for the _Daily Prophet_ so, I paid him back when we first introduced you into the spotlight as Hermione Granger – and not Penny Clearwater – to keep an eye out for potential threats to your reveal your past. None came, thankfully, but he's been keeping tabs on what the _Prophet_ publishes about you ever since."

"And he saw the developed photo?"

"He took it, actually," Draco confirmed idly. "Brought it to me right away."

"Oh," Hermione stated. "So, all of the other rubbish Rita's posted about me–"

"Was run by me through Creevey, yes. I didn't like a single word of it, of course, but I couldn't disrupt any articles that weren't actually harmful to you. Besides, as long as you stand beside me, the public will adore you no matter what that monstrous woman publishes."

"Right," she nodded. "She'd dig deeper if she thought you were trying to cover up something, not just prevent occasional slander of my character." Hermione mulled over this new information for a few moments, then spoke up again. "So, when she published about Theo and me…?"

"Yes," Draco laughed, "Unfortunately, there was nothing wrong with allowing that article to be published. The absurdity of you two dating aside, it ended up proving to be immensely useful." She knew he was right, because as much as they all joked about it when it first was published roughly two years ago now, it did alleviate the small problem of explaining her constant appearance by Theo and Draco's side for almost five years. Even a well-respected assistant wouldn't have been granted access to the galas and events she attended as Penny; her rumored status as Theo's lover would have easily covered that up.

"Draco," she said minutes later, stirring him from half-sleep. He grunted, and she went on. "You trust me, right? Absolutely and without question?" He stilled, studying her expression before nodding; slowly at first, then vigorously, surer of himself.

"Yes. Is this about Riddle?"

Hermione nodded.

"You understand, don't you? It's the only way."

"I understand," he lamented. "I don't like it, but I understand, and I trust you."

* * *

The next three months were a blur.

Rather than destroy the image of Hermione striding up to Tom's mansion, she convinced Draco to release it back to Colin Creevey, who boasted about it loudly enough in the vicinity of Rita that she confiscated it for personal use. According to Creevey, however, her article was never going to be published because their editor received a thinly veiled threat regarding the contents of the article and photograph. When Draco told Hermione this, it perplexed both of them, but they later realized it must have been Tom's heavy hand that stopped the article seeing the light of day. He confirmed as much at their next meeting, when Hermione pretended to be concerned about being seen by the press; she emphasized to Tom how poorly that would bode for her wellbeing and their future endeavors should Draco find out where she was going late and night and what she was up to.

(Which was all a ruse, of course, since Draco knew precisely where she was going and what she was up to. In fact, he'd taken to helping her maintain cover in his household. They both believed it best to keep their Tom-hunt on the down-low since most others were still convinced it was Slughorn or Fudge curating the madness.)

Hermione's sudden sense of purpose did not go unnoticed in the Manor. Several times, mainly over meals, she was questioned about what project was pulling her focus; Luna was clearly sour that Hermione no longer exhibited mildly neurotic behavior on a daily basis and made her disappointment in Hermione known. Narcissa kept quiet during these instances, but there was one occasion where she called Hermione into her office and excused Pansy briefly.

As soon as the door shut behind Pansy, Narcissa turned her pale blue eyes on Hermione and motioned for her to sit opposite; she did, crossing her ankles and painting a stoic expression across her face.

"You seem less… unstable." Narcissa commented.

Hermione shrugged.

"I presume, then, you've found something to keep your interests. A hobby, perhaps?" Again, Hermione shrugged, but her hands betrayed her calm stature by rapping against her thigh anxiously which, of course, did not evade Narcissa's keen eye. "What have you found?"

"Narcissa," she said kindly, "you know I can't disclose that with you."

Narcissa's lips twitched upwards into a ghost of smirk. "Good," she ruled. "You're learning." Then she dismissed Hermione with a flick of her wrist and called Pansy back in to discuss more company affairs. Per usual, Pansy briefed Hermione on what she felt was necessary for her to know at their family meetings; and that was that.

Which was for the better since Hermione was still convinced something was off with Narcissa and the company books. She told Draco, albeit reluctantly, given their new approach to a relationship; it namely involved loads more honesty and openness than their previous relationship. Without any concrete evidence that anything Narcissa was doing was illegal, though, there was nothing either of them were willing to do, _especially_ not confront her about it.

Between investigating Tom, watching Narcissa, and continuing her duties as mock-COO of the family company, Hermione was exhausted. Draco, likewise, was running himself into the ground at work trying to pass acts through the House. It was a wonder either of them had any energy left at the end of the day to have sex; they did manage to find _some_ energy, of course.

Theo joked that they were almost as bad as Astoria and Oliver, to which Astoria retorted that at least they were kind enough to retire to Scotland whenever they felt like ruining the furniture, to which Theo became gregariously offended and resorted to childish remarks, to which Harry apologized – profusely and repeatedly – to Narcissa and Draco for damaging the furniture, to which most of the room erupted into a fit of laughter after seeing the expression on Narcissa's face as Harry hurriedly fled the room, dragging Theo with him.

Daphne, who was a full-on recluse with the impending deadline of the annual gala fast approaching, finally emerged into the main sitting room from her makeshift office with Blaise one evening, both looking worse for wear but beaming like schoolchildren.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you two?" Astoria gasped upon registering their presence in the room. Pansy smirked into her whiskey but remained loyally quiet as Daphne and Blaise readied themselves as if they were preparing to make a major announcement to the family. Evidently, they were.

"I've decided its time I stop listening to my mother," Daphne began – "Holy fuck, Daph, it's about time," scoffed Astoria – "So, I'm going to be foregoing most of my socialite work in favor of promoting a business idea of mine, with the help of Blaise, of course," she added, smiling at him.

At that point, most everyone reacted either by staring unblinking at Daphne as if she spontaneously grew another head, or by jumping to congratulate her and toast with their drink (in Hermione's case, with non-spiked tea).

"Business?" Shrieked Astoria, glancing back and forth between a smirking Pansy and a nervous Daphne. "What business? Though, I would like to note that mother will be _furious,_ and I applaud you for it. Perhaps, now I won't be the most unbeloved child," she winked.

Daphne huffed, momentarily distraught, but Blaise ushered her forward with a handful of parchment and murmured a few encouraging words in her ear. Daphne's business was, unsurprisingly to Hermione and Pansy, a fashion line; she intended to handmake several pieces of women's clothing, namely dresses to start, and wanted permission to subtly use the gala as her test run. She was met – also unsurprisingly – with complete support.

The periwinkle dress Daphne made for Hermione for the gala was exquisite and elegant; it was made from refined materials, fitted appropriately and flatteringly, and received well by everyone, including the press who was eager to uncover dirt on the common woman Draco dared to keep on his arm to this day. Unfortunately for Hermione, the gala itself was not as pleasant as her dress.

Tom was in attendance. His watchful eye never wavered from Hermione, which was most unfortunate because she looked radiant as ever beside Draco and found it very difficult to pretend that she was not as happy as she was standing beside him. Hermione knew this would be a problem; the depths of blackness in Tom's eye was unmistakable.

It wasn't until much later, though, that Hermione would realize just how much she fucked up.

* * *

"I knew I would find you here," drawled Tom.

Startled, Hermione dropped the account book she'd been analyzing and clutched her chest. How does one explain snooping about the personal study of the man whom she's been slowly convincing she would leave her current lover for despite his reservation that she was toying with him, or _spying_ on him? Oh, that's fucking right, one doesn't.

"Tom," Hermione breathed; a deer caught in headlights. "I was just–"

"Looking through my personal and private belongings without permission? To, perhaps, reveal any findings to the Malfoy family? Yes, Hermione, I am not _quite_ as thick as you hoped I would be," he said; his blue eyes narrowed to the point that the blue was no longer visible, and his lips twitched downward in a grim smirk. Hermione was in trouble.

"Draco doesn't–"

"Don't lie to me."

Tom's eyes flashed red with anger, and his lip curled, baring his teeth when he snapped at her. Then, as if he hadn't lost his temper, he straightened his jacket, and his tone returned to a serene coolness; neither settled Hermione's nerves.

"You two are foolish to believe what you have will last – your empire or your affection. But I'm afraid I have also been acting rather foolishly, Hermione, you see I wanted to believe the best in you. I wanted to believe that unbelievably clever mind of yours would see logic and ally yourself with me, but now I see that I was only seeing what I wanted to see. You were never mine, were you?" He tutted, taking a step towards her; she backed up against the desk, cornered. "Someone close to me warned me of this, and I couldn't help but put his theory to the test."

Evidently, Hermione fretted, Tom had _not_ taken a business call; the opportunity to finally snoop through his office was, after all, too good to be true.

"You may tell yourself you are here for young Draco," Tom went on with a sinister smirk, "but we both know that is not true."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione countered with as much confidence as she could muster since he was less than a foot away from her now.

"I believe you do, Hermione." Tom theatrically plucked a paper from his desk and held it up for Hermione to inspect. "You may have assured young Draco that you were here to prove my hand in his recent difficulties, but we both know that was a lie the minute you stepped over that threshold the very first night. I wonder," he taunted, "what he will think when he learns what you are actually hoping to find here, and what you will say to him when you've found it."

"Narcissa," Hermione choked, realizing which Malfoy he had originally been referring to earlier.

"Yes," he drawled. "As you can see," – Tom held up the paper for emphasis, then laid it neatly atop the desk – "I have proof that dear Narcissa Malfoy has been sending large sums of money to a Voldemort Incorporated and, furthermore, that this offshore company in question has dealings directly related to the communist party here in London."

"That's not possible," she snapped.

"Oh, but it is. I have all the proof right here, Hermione. All one needs to do is follow the money," he stated. "I do recall, come to think of it, that young Draco himself was commissioned not too long ago to – Oh, what's the word? – _assassinate_ a known communist and his affiliates. I wonder what the fate of dear Narcissa will be if the authorities were to find out about this nasty habit of hers. Prime Minister Churchill wouldn't ask young Draco to assassinate his _own_ _mother_, would he? Surely, not."

Hermione's hand, curled into a fist, hit the table so hard she thought she might have fractured a bone or two; at the moment, however, the intactness of her bones were the least of her worries.

"You wouldn't dare."

"It would be unwise to underestimate me."

"What do you want?" She growled.

"I want only what I have always wanted, Hermione." Tom stated plainly, eyes glinting. "You."

"No," she choked out.

"I'm afraid that's really not up for debate. Come with me, Hermione, and I promise no harm will come to dear Narcissa. Stay with your young Draco, however…" He shrugged his pointed shoulders, grinning mercilessly down on her. Hermione's insides boiled.

"If I stay with Draco and you – When he finds out about Narcissa's fate, he will blame me!" Hermione cried, raging inside from the impossible choice.

"Oh, yes. He will blame you – I will make sure of it."

In Hermione's hesitation, Tom attacked.

Poised like a viper, and twice as fast, Tom coiled around Hermione and pinned her to the desk. One hand forcing her neck down, and the other groping her legs, Hermione was struck by a horrific flashback to another time she was in this very same position and predicament; like then, though, she was not wont to wait for a man to save her. Twisting as hard as she could, Hermione swung her arm around and stabbed Tom as hard as she could with the fancy pen on his desk, and when he retracted his hand with a yowl of pain, she swung again with the other hand – fully twisted around now – and hit him over the head with the heavy, solid metal pen holder. Gasping for breath and scared beyond belief, Hermione ran from the room.

The layout of the mansion was easy, luckily, but it was also a straight shot down a wide hallway, and she hadn't thought to take Tom's gun from him. Waiting for the telltale boom of the revolver was torture. In her wake, Hermione flung various vases, busts, and other décor behind her; she was granted a satisfactory scream as one hit its target. Hermione kept running; past the butler, out the door, and toward the family car parked around the street as fast as she could.

"The choice is yours, Hermione!" Tom called as she fled into the night. "Narcissa's fate lies in your hands."

* * *

Following her miscarriage and subsequent touch of alcoholism, Hermione became very in-tune with her body; she was able to observe every miniscule change from the toning of her triceps from training with Oliver to the excruciating pain of her menstrual cramps just before a nasty cycle. Her singular ability to detect the smallest change in her body and pinpoint its origin took a long time to perfect, and it was her confidence in her ability that led her to believe something was deeply wrong.

Scared for her health, Hermione kept her symptoms from everyone – including Draco.

It wasn't a secret she kept lightly, recalling their talk of trust. Then again, keeping secrets from him had become habitual again; Hermione still had yet to tell Draco the truth of his mother, but in her defense, she didn't know how one was to go about telling someone that sort of thing. Thus, she said nothing.

"How did it go?" Draco asked the evening Hermione arrived home from Riddle's house.

In the breath of a minute, she debated telling him everything – every detail of how Narcissa was betraying them, how she narrowly escaped a sexual assault, and how Riddle was almost certainly behind everything – but she bit her tongue at the worried expression on his tired face; what kind of person would she be to burden him with things he couldn't do anything about? At least, not yet. She would tell him, she told herself just… later. Then again, there were some things Hermione would find almost impossible to hide. Draco could still read her very well, and her distress must be painted plainly in the grim line of her lips.

"What is it" He demanded, getting up from her bed and rushing to her side. "What happened?" His fingers tangled themselves in her curls, soothing her effortlessly. "Are you alright? Did he–"

"I'm fine." She assured him with a swift smile, leaning into his touch. "He knows, though. He discovered my true intentions. There is no feasible way I can return to his estate without a death wish, and if I can't return–"

"That doesn't matter." He cut in quickly, kissing her forehead. "We will find another way to unravel his plans, and prove his guilt, Hermione. The only thing that matters is that you are alright, yes?" She nodded meekly, and he pulled her back to bed with him.

Since that dreadful night, Hermione didn't sleep well. For weeks, she tossed and turned, riddled with anxiety; her nightmares returned which left her plagued mainly by a foreign brute with an icy touch and a madman with a sinister smile. It didn't help that when she woke, comforted by her love beside her or by the coolness of the night air on her skin, that the nightmares were real; for in the backyard, buried beneath the roses, were the two men who haunted her when she slept.

In waking, life wasn't much better.

Hermione was becoming more ill; she was constantly nauseous, excusing herself to be sick before anyone took notice of her pale and sweaty appearance, and many parts of her body ached and groaned despite no being subject to Oliver's training regime. It wasn't until two weeks before the widely anticipated Hallowe'en gala that she realized what was making her infallibly ill.

Winky traipsed into the room just after breakfast and nearly accosted Hermione in the bathroom; she scrambled to her feet, splashed cold water over her burning cheeks and neck, then righted herself in time for her faithful servant to appear in the doorway with a fresh batch of towels and feminine products. She opened the cabinet to put them away and stilled.

"Miss," Winky drawled tentatively, nervously. "Winky sees that Miss has not used any of her feminine products. Winky sees that the stock is still full. Winky wonders if everything is alright, Miss?"

Hermione opened her mouth to wave away Winky's concerns and assure her that of course she'd used her products when she realized she couldn't and snapped her mouth shut; she wasn't certain when the last time she used them was, and held onto the sink for support as her knees buckled beneath her. Suddenly, her symptoms reminded Hermione less of hysteria and more of –

"Winky," Hermione gasped.

"Miss!" She startled. "Winky will get Master Malfoy – Oh, no he is out – Winky will get Mistress Malfoy, or–" she fumbled, wringing her small hands and muttering many other names; most everyone was out of the Manor that day, but Hermione didn't dwell on that.

"Winky, no." She insisted, waving the slight woman before her. "Winky, I only need you. Please, Winky, come here." Hermione slid to the cool tile floor of the bathroom and struggled to regulate her breathing. "Winky I – I think I'm pregnant," she whispered.

Winky's mania, astonishingly, waned and settled at the statement; her expression and demeaner took on a rare form of seriousness that helped to settle Hermione's nerves. If Winky could stay calm, then surely, she could as well.

"It will be ok, Miss,"

"What if it isn't ok?" Hermione trembled. "What if something happens… again. What if I fail? Or – Or, what if I don't fail in childbearing, but in childbirth? Or, later – What if I am not suited for motherhood? What – What if–"

"Shh, Miss," murmured Winky, taking Hermione's shaking hands in her own and patting them softly. "Winky is not knowing a lot, Miss, but Winky knows that Miss is strong. Miss can handle this–"

"But last time, I–"

"But this is not last time. This is now."

Hermione stared at Winky for several minutes.

"Winky, I'm scared."

"My Miss? Scared?" Winky offered a lopsided smile, tutting softly and teasingly. "Winky has never heard something so silly. Winky thinks Miss has no reason to be scared. Miss has many persons to help Miss and be there for her. Miss is also very brave."

"I don't know…"

"Winky is telling Miss," she said, "Winky knows Miss can do this. Miss is taking good care of Master Malfoy for as long as Miss has been with him, and Master Malfoy turns out good – very good, Miss." Winky offered another pleasant smile. "A baby will be easier, Winky thinks, than Master Malfoy. But Miss mustn't tell Master Malfoy that Winky said that," she stood.

"Your secret is safe with me," Hermione finally said, standing with her and wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Thank you, Winky."

"Winky thinks nothing of this, Miss," she shrugged, turning to leave the bathroom and calling out over her shoulder, "It is Winky's job to take care of Miss."

Another week passed and when Hermione did not bleed, she was certain she was pregnant. With this knowledge, however, came a whirlwind of emotions. One day she would be cautiously optimistic, as if she could accomplish anything if she simply set her stubborn mind to it like she did with most other aspects of her life. Another day she would be woefully fearful, mostly because she knew what it meant to lose a child, and then how dangerous the world was if she didn't lose the child. Most days she existed in a state of manic anxiety. An immense amount of pressure sat atop Hermione's shoulders, but there also excited a surprisingly amount of relief; that this child, perhaps, might help lessen the burden of the loss of her first. Above all else, Hermione wanted to share her emotions and thoughts with Draco.

Because last time Draco discovered Hermione was pregnant in a particularly awful way, this time she intended to tell him the news properly.

"What is this?"

"I thought that was quite obvious," Hermione smiled, nudging Draco forward to open the package. "It's a gift, Draco. Don't be so nervous – Open it,"

"How can I not be nervous when you're hardly the picture of calm," he retorted.

"Never mind that," she groaned. "Bloody hell, Draco, if you don't–" In Hermione's nervous pacing, she accidentally clipped Draco with a little too much force and sent the package, which he finally picked up, tumbling across the room; it crashed against the floor with a disheartening shatter. "Fuck," she swore under her breath as they both rushed toward it to inspect the damage, "that'll be the brandy and glasses."

"What?"

Hermione ignored him and instead hurriedly fished out the other items before the spilled liquor ruined them. She sheepishly turned to Draco and presented them; it was not at all how she planned for it to go, which wasn't a comforting premonition.

"Here," she murmured, handing him the two items. One was a tiny newspaper cap with a silver glint under the fold; it was the perfect miniature of the one Draco wore almost daily. The other was more traditional, grey baby booties to match the cap, and was intended to help make the message clear. "I wanted to make it nice, but–"

"Are you serious? Are you fucking serious, right now?" Draco said, looking up from the gift in his hands to stare at her; the full weight of his silvery eyes blinding her temporarily. She nodded. "Hermione, I–" He glanced back down at the gift, choked on a sob, then came at her so quickly that all of the air left Hermione's lungs in one large rush as he picked her up and whirled her around. "Fucking hell," he gasped, elated, when he finally put her back down. "A baby? Really?"

Hermione, a smile creeping up her lips, nodded and blushed. "A baby."

"You're sure?"

"Draco,"

"Right," he agreed. "How long have you known?"

"Not long," she admitted. "About a week, but–" She stopped, studying his face and hating herself for what she was about to say. If only it wasn't absolutely necessary. "I don't think I'm much farther along than last time." Hermione let that sink in, then added, "I wanted to tell you, of course, but what if–"

"Let's not worry about that now," he cut in, still smiling down on her.

"No," she insisted, "we have to worry about it now. Draco, you can't leave me again if something–"

"I won't."

"No, I mean it." Hermione snapped, suddenly serious and out of breath. Her hands tugged at the collar of his oxford, dragging his mouth down to hers for a hasty kiss. In it, she tried to say everything she was afraid she couldn't aloud. "You can't leave me like that again, and you can't punish me, either." Draco nodded, trailing his thumb across her bottom lip. "I can't check out again. We have to push through it, this time, if something happens. It's you and me, now, ok? We can't go through something like that again." _We won't survive_ is what she didn't say, but they both felt it in what little distance existed between them.

"I understand," Draco said.

"Good."

They kissed again, then Draco rested his forehead against hers. "A baby," he smiled. "I can't wait to tell everyone. Mother will be ecstatic."

"Do you think that's a good idea?" Hermione asked. "Shouldn't we wait?"

"Wait for what?"

"I want to be sure everything is alright," she replied. "As happy as I am, I'm still so fearful because of last time…"

Draco regarded her for a moment. "Madam Pomfrey assured you that was due to the trauma your body sustained on top of the risks she noted during the initial examination. That's what she told you, right?" Hermione nodded and tried to argue, but he cut her off with a kiss. "We'll never be sure, not really. There's always going to be risks, but don't you think it's better to have a whole room ready to support you – us – should anything happen?"

"I suppose you're right," Hermione agreed with a heavy sigh. "But can we keep it a secret a little while longer – just between you and me? We can tell them later," she suggested.

"I like that. A secret for just us – just our family," he breathed.

"You're not going to propose to me because of the baby, are you?" Hermione groaned. "Like you did last time," she taunted.

"Only if you want me to," he smirked, kissing her forehead, nose, then lips. "Do you want me to?"

"No," she replied honestly. "Not yet, anyway. I love you, Draco, but I'm not ready to marry you yet, no matter how ingrained in your family and life I already am," she laughed.

He laughed, too. "Noted."

A few days later, after many covert smiles, Draco and Hermione called Astoria, Theo, and Narcissa into a smaller sitting room upstairs, away from where the rest of the family gathered in the main sitting room after dinner to chat and drink.

"Does Astoria _have_ to be there for the initial announcement?" Draco complained earlier that day.

Hermione glared at him. "Does Theo?"

"He's my best mate," argued Draco.

"Well, Astoria is mine," countered Hermione with an air of indifference. Draco eventually caved, but Hermione had known he would. The only other person they could agree should be present for the initial announcement was Narcissa; the only viable grandparent the child would have.

Theo glanced skeptically at Draco, refusing to settle into a chair like the others; his long frame leaned effortlessly against the fireplace with a cigarette glued to his lips. Astoria and Narcissa – equally as suspicious as Theo by the sudden, very exclusive meeting – crossed their arms over their chest after knocking back two glasses of spiced liquor each.

"Well," drawled Narcissa. "What the bloody hell have you called us in for, then?"

"We have news," started Draco.

Theo scoffed loudly in the corner. "No shite, Draco," he leered. "Are we planning another murder, then? That _is_ why Satan is present, I assume."

"If we were, then you would hope Oliver was also sitting among us," shot back Astoria lighting a cigarette herself and puffing out several rings of smoke in Theo's direction. He retaliated by aiming a few smoke rings back at her; Hermione and Narcissa rolled their eyes while Draco pinched the bridge of his nose subtly.

"No, we aren't organizing a murder." Draco supplied.

"Yet," input Theo with a conspiratorial wink.

Narcissa surveyed Draco and Hermione; both appeared calm on the surface, but if one looked closer – which Narcissa was in the habit of doing – they would see that Hermione was shuffling back and forth and playing idly with her hair while Draco's hands were constantly fidgeting and trying to keep busy.

"You have personal news," she observed. "It's best to be out with it, don't you think? Rip the bloody band-aid and just tell us. It is why you called us in here, is it not?" Narcissa took a languid sip of her drink, sitting up slightly straighter in her armchair.

"Yes," said Draco, glancing at Hermione before looking back at his mother, then the others two. "It is personal news, and I would appreciate if it didn't leave this room until–"

"Bloody hell, you two, what the fuck is–"

"I'm pregnant." Hermione blurted, cutting Astoria off and delivering the room to silence.

"Are you sure?" Narcissa asked.

Hermione nodded. "Quite sure."

"Well, _quite sure_ isn't convincing in the slightest, Hermione. I'm not going to tell you what to do with your own body, but I would like to make it known that an examination is in order. I can call Madam Pomfrey to the Manor first thing tomorrow morning, if you like?" Hermione sighed at nothing in particular, then nodded to Narcissa. There was no point in arguing, and it was – regrettably – a sound call; one she'd been dreading but expecting, nonetheless. "Excellent," Narcissa ruled. "I'll make the arrangements, then."

"Is this what you want?" Astoria asked, aiming her question toward Hermione more than Draco.

"Yes," she replied, grateful for the fire behind Astoria's light green eyes; she knew if she was anything less than absolutely sure that her best friend would likely move heaven and earth to help her navigate that hazy territory. As unnecessary as it was, it was comforting to know. "It's what we both want. We're sure."

Astoria proposed her follow-up question, "Are you ready?"

Theo, again, scoffed. "A bit late for that, wouldn't you say? Granger's already knocked up," he winked at Draco, then gave a perfunctory bow to Hermione, flashing them both a radiant smile when he rose. "Congratulations, by the way. Loony will be thrilled. I have no doubt she'll rant about heirs for _at least_ forty minutes without interruption."

Hermione stifled a laugh.

"It's not ideal timing, of course, but I'll get started on arrangements and perhaps we can pull it off before you start to show," muttered Narcissa, mostly to herself. "Daphne will want to design the dress – naturally. She would also make an excellent source for leaking about it, then maybe we can get ahead of the press a bit, so the news doesn't come as so much of a shock. Yes – We can arrange it to look like it's been in the schedule all along–"

"Mother," Draco said, cutting her off. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Language, Malfoy!" Theo crowed with wide eyes. He mouthed, "The baby," then gestured theatrically to Hermione's flat abdomen; she scowled at him, pursing her lips, but he only laughed.

"Fuck off, Nott," retorted Draco.

"What am I talking about?" Narcissa posed, seeming shocked to have to answer such a question. "I'm talking about your wedding, _obviously_. You'll have to get married before the child comes, or we'll have hell to pay in society with explaining a child out of wedlock. I know it's practically 1930, but still–"

"No."

Everyone turned their heads to stare at Hermione.

"No," she said again. "We aren't getting married because I'm pregnant. I won't do that."

"Hermione, dear–"

"No."

"But–"

"Oh, who cares?" Astoria said, interrupting Hermione and Narcissa. She waved her half-lit cigarette toward Narcissa. "Maybe it mattered more when you were pregnant, Narcissa, but Hermione doesn't need to worry about having a child _out of wedlock_. That's absurd."

"We won't be getting married to please society," Hermione ruled.

"Draco," Narcissa pleaded, turning from either woman to face her son, who stood quiet on the matter up until then. "Draco see reason. You understand what I'm saying, don't you? The press will eat both of you alive – primarily Hermione, of course, because she's the woman who got knocked up by a rich and powerful man whom she's not married to. You understand, don't you?" Narcissa pressed.

"She's got a point," added Theo with a shrug of his shoulders. "That Skeeter woman would double her annual income on that headline alone."

"I don't give a fuck," Hermione snapped. "I'm not ready for that, yet, and I won't be pressured into it. By you, the press, _or_ the baby."

Draco finally nodded. "I stand with Hermione. When we marry," – he glanced down at her, a soft smile curving the corners of his lips – "it will be on our terms, not anyone else's."

Hermione smirked, then mouthed, "When?" but he shrugged and diverted his attention.

"Fine," snapped Narcissa, slamming her glass on a side table. "At the very least, you'll have to be engaged before you start to show. That _might_ curve some of the hate headed your way."

"Engaged?" Hermione repeated. "How the bloody hell is that any different? I told you–"

"Take it," Astoria and Theo said in unison. Both of them stared at one another for a full minute in disbelief, then Astoria went on. "It's a decent compromise, Hermione. You won't be married, not officially, and declaring that you _intend to_ _marry_ isn't exactly a lie, is it? Besides, it _will_ help alleviate the bad press."

"This is ridiculous." Hermione floundered seeing the others unwilling to argue. She turned to her one last hope. "Draco?"

He ran his tongue over his lips, licking the spiced liquor from them and simultaneously biding his time. "We should present ourselves as engaged," he ruled, then immediately sought to comfort Hermione. "Listen, we don't need to _actually_ be engaged, ok? We can still move at whatever pace makes us happy, and the fake engagement can last as long as we want it to. Until we're ready. This will protect you," he said. "The press will be brutal once they find out, and this could help. Besides," he smirked, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, "when have they ever gotten anything right about us, hm? Why start now?" Draco joked.

"That's the spirit!" Theo said, raising his glass.

"We'll have to tell everyone, then," Hermione pointed out. Draco nodded slowly, and she exhaled, defeated. "Fine."

* * *

The next afternoon Hermione sidled up next to Astoria.

"I couldn't help but notice how uncomfortable you were during the examination." Astoria fled the room almost the minute Madam Pomfrey finished with Hermione, not bothering to stay to hear anything about the wellbeing of the child (it was healthy, and the risks the midwife noticed last pregnancy weren't present this time, thankfully). "Is everything ok?" Hermione paused, surveying the contemplative expression on her friend's face, then added, "Are you angry with me?"

"No, I am not angry with you, Hermione."

"Then, why–"

"Did you ever wonder why they all call me Satan?" She asked, her jade green eyes twinkling in the soft light afternoon. She plucked a white rose from a nearby bush, twirling it between her forefinger and thumb. "Did you?" Astoria pressed.

Hermione faltered for words, ultimately shrugging. "I presumed that was just Theo being… well, being an arse about something he didn't understand. He often tells me nobody likes you, but–"

"Well, that's half true. Theo coined the name Satan because he was being an arse, even though now it's primarily used because of his unequivocal desire for knavery, which I supposed I have Oliver in part to thank for that. His continued presence beside me seems to have instilled a sense of amicability between myself and the rest of the household – not Pans or Daph, of course. They were always friendly with me, even if we weren't necessarily close." She half-laughed. "I suspect I was a bit of an irritating younger sibling growing up."

"What does this have to do with–"

"Madam Pomfrey?" Astoria guessed, arching an ebony brow expectantly. Hermione pursed her lips, then nodded. "Well, the last time Madam Pomfrey, Narcissa, Draco and I were all in the same room, let's just say it wasn't hardly for quite as joyous an occasion as this morning."

Hermione nodded again, waiting patiently for Astoria to continue.

She sighed exasperatedly, glancing askance to Hermione, then tossed the rose and focused her attention on the other woman. "You aren't going to let this go, are you?" Hermione shook her head. Astoria sighed again, though this time with a bit of affection hidden in it. "Very well, Hermione. You know bloody well how to get what you want, and who am I to refuse?"

"You can tell me anything, Astoria, you know that,"

"Well, if I'm going to do this properly then I better start at the very beginning." Astoria said. "As you know, Draco and I dated." She paused, waiting to see if Hermione would wince or show any signs of not wanting to hear anymore; as expected, she did not. "We were young – well, we were always young, but before the war we were _very young_. It was a childish sort of love, in a way, and when he came back from the war, it wasn't the same. Neither of us were the same, to be fair, so that wasn't to say it was anyone's fault when our childish fancy didn't live on as it did before the war. Still, we tried to make it work."

"Did it?" Hermione asked.

"For a bit," admitted Astoria, tilting her head one side to the other. "Then I got pregnant."

"Oh," said Hermione, "… and?"

"And I didn't want to be," she murmured. "Draco was a gentleman – as the only son of Narcissa one would expect him to be, but still – and he offered me marriage." This time, Hermione did wince. She was aware Astoria and Draco had a history, but she wasn't quite so aware of how much of one there had been. "He offered me a life where I could have the baby without fear of having it out of wedlock, where it could grow up in a financially stable household, and where we go could go forward with our relationship haven given it a purpose: to take care of our unborn child." She paused, sighed, then went on. "It all sounded very lovely, but it wasn't what I wanted. I wasn't in the right place to be a mother – little did I know that I would probably never be tempted into motherhood – and I told him as much. I didn't want the baby."

"What did he say?"

"He was supportive," she shrugged. "As you know, Draco isn't the most religious man, and I wouldn't have pinned him as the type of man to pressure a woman into having a child she didn't want. Narcissa, on the other hand, required a lot more convincing."

"Narcissa?"

"Yes, she was the one with the connection to a discrete midwife who was willing to do the procedure. It's not legal, of course, but it's a nasty procedure and can be exceptionally harmful to any woman who tries to attempt it at home." Astoria explained. "I needed Narcissa on board because I needed her to contact Madam Pomfrey."

Hermione thought back to her first examination with Madam Pomfrey. Narcissa demanded that she be the healer Hermione sees, hovered over her the entire appointment, and didn't hesitate to take care of any minute detail.

"Do you think – Last time, when I was – Did Narcissa want me to–"

"_God no_," Astoria gasped, taking Hermione's hand in her own and squeezing it. "All Narcissa ever wanted was to have a grandchild. It took Draco and I days, _nearly a week_, to convince her that this was what we wanted and that we wouldn't be changing our minds. I'm certain that, last time, Narcissa called Madam Pomfrey because of her exceptional discretion, not because she wanted her to perform an abortion on you, Hermione. You probably don't recall this – understandably, you were in your own world of grief at the time – but Narcissa was beyond distraught when you lost the baby. Her and Draco were often at each other's throats over your ill-treatment,"

Hermione's brows furrowed. "Oh," was all she said, unable to form a cohesive sentence from the rest of her muddled thoughts.

They sat in silence, listening to the pleasant chirping of the birds and the incessant buzzing of the bees until a disturbing revelation struck Hermione.

"Wait," she whispered, gazing into Astoria's large, green eyes. "Were you pregnant around the same time that–"

"Yes."

Hermione gulped, "But–"

"Theo and the others believe when I broke up with Draco, it was because I did not love him, and perhaps that is true since I now know what it feels to actually love someone and be loved by them, again thanks to Oliver," she said with a twitch of her lips into a faint smile. It vanished quickly. "What they don't know – what no one aside from Draco or Narcissa knows – is that I was pregnant and had an abortion. I wasn't only afraid that I might not make a good mother. I was also afraid…" She inhaled sharply. "What _none _of them know is that I wasn't entirely sure Draco was the father." Astoria admitted with a grim frown, looking off into the distant as if reliving the horror.

Hermione bit her lip. "Sirius," she whispered.

Astoria nodded.

* * *

Hermione spotted Harry and Theo with Pansy and Daphne standing together on the other side of the room. She moved politely through the crowd and delivered herself to them with a pained smile painted across her lips. There were many reporters present at the Hallowe'en gala, and there was a likely chance a few snuck a photographer into the event as their date. The gala, held by the Prime Minister himself, was ostentatious and unnecessary – no funds were being raised for any particular philanthropy so, as far as Hermione could tell, the Prime Minister simply wanted to host a grand costume party for his socialite wife – but excitement buzzed through the air, encompassing most guests in a breeze of bewilderment.

"Everyone keeps staring at me," complained Hermione as she arrived at their side.

"I'm sure it has absolutely nothing to do with the magnificent rock on your finger," mocked Pansy, smirking behind a sip of champagne. Hermione frowned, and Pansy sighed. "For heaven's sake, Hermione. You've literally just announced your engagement by emerging from the car with _that_ on your finger – not saying a word, mind you – so people are going to bloody stare." She shrugged, taking another sip. "Accept it. Own it."

"Easier said than done." Hermione muttered.

"Where is the _light_ of your life?" Theo asked, scanning the room over her head.

Daphne shook her head, "Don't let him hear you making comments like that. He hates his costume enough as it is."

From Pansy, "You're not nearly as funny as you think you are, Nott."

Harry, standing between Hermione and Theo, elbowed both of them subtly, then nodded ahead of them to where Draco stood talking with Bagman. "Ah," Hermione nodded, "Right where I left him about half an hour ago. I don't know how he does it. Bagman is atrocious, misogynistic–"

"Shh," hissed Pansy. "Someone will hear you."

"Doubtful," Hermione countered but ceased mouthing Bagman, nonetheless.

"I don't see why he hates his costume so much," sniffed Theo. "It suits him." All of them craned their necks to get another look at Draco between the mulling crowd, then muttered their agreeance. Draco, dressed as Apollo, shone as bright as the sun he was supposed to be the god of, and Hermione's heart melted a bit at the sight of him. Though, if Draco had it his way, he wouldn't have been Apollo at all.

"Apollo isn't a protagonist or an antagonist. He doesn't fit the theme," argued Draco as Hermione and Daphne coerced him into his costume a few hours earlier.

"Zeus doesn't fit the theme either." Supplied Hermione sagely. Draco pouted so, she added, "It wouldn't be a good idea for you to be seen as Zeus for social and political reasons. Firstly, he is the god of gods, which is hardly relatable to the people," – "and Apollo _is?_" – "and Skeeter will pounce on that opportunity to squash your socialist position in the House simply because she can."

"Apollo is much more than a sun god, anyway," input Daphne as she adjusted the final fitting of Draco's costume. "He is the god of art, poetry, music… Not to mention, he's rumored to have been the most attractive."

"Aren't you forgetting about Ares?"

"No, I'm not."

The matter was hardly settled, but ultimately Draco had no real argument so, the rest was mindless banter. No one else bickered over their costume, but there was a mildly entertaining debate about each of their choices. When Hermione and Draco descended to the foyer from the final fitting with Daphne leading the way, her eye immediately caught Blaise; she understood the significance of his costume.

"Robin Hood?" She asked, nodding to his bourgeoise version of the legendary heroic outlaw.

"Yes," he beamed, twisting to display his prop quiver of arrows and bow, both strapped to his back. "I thought his morality would be in my best interest to portray. Most people, as you know, don't like accountants or anyone who deals with large sums of money on a daily basis, but hopefully the portrayal of Hood will give them a false sense of trust in my abilities, and who knows? Maybe I am stealing from the rich and giving to the poor," he winked.

"See, he gets it." Hermione whispered to Draco at the same time Theo rolled his eyes at Blaise's speech and said, rather loudly, "More likely to be the other way around, mate."

"Please," scoffed Blaise, then dragged his dark gaze up and down Theo's costume. He pursed his lips. "In what way, pray tell, is Jay Gatsby a protagonist? He threw parties that were falsely described as 'an extraordinary gift of hope' and unhealthily fawned over a young woman. He's more of an antagonist, if you ask me," sniffed Blaise.

"Precisely," winked Theo. "Besides, one of us had to portray a modern character – I mean – Grendel, Potter? Really?"

"What?" Harry exclaimed, glancing down at his costume. "He's an iconic villain."

"Beowulf liked him," Draco pointed out, clinking glasses with Theo in front of Harry.

Harry's brows furrowed. "Beowulf _wasn't afraid of_ _him_ – There's a difference. He's still one of literature's most revered villains, and he was a descendent of Cain–"

"Fancy yourself the descendent of a powerful man, do you Potter?" Theo teased.

"Cain was the first Biblical _murderer_," gasped Hermione.

Theo shrugged. "Doesn't mean he wasn't powerful."

"Alright, _clearly_ Theo has decided he is Team Antagonist." Daphne said, shaking her head. She was dressed – accurately and appropriately considering her natural beauty – as Sleeping Beauty, and Pansy as her counterpart, Maleficent. "I hope that won't be a problem, Theo," she said to him, "seeing as I'm your date tonight and I'm clearly Team Protagonist."

"I will forgive you, Greengrass, because your character has a deeply horrific tale that wonts sympathy." Theo ruled.

"She was kissed in her sleep?" Harry blinked. "How is that 'deeply horrific', Nott?"

"That's only according to the Brothers Grimm tale." Hermione interjected, unable to prevent herself. "_Sun, Moon, and Talia_ is believed to be the origin, written in 1634, by Basile. It was later adapted by Perrault in _Pentamerone_ and then again by Brothers Grimm as _Sleeping Beauty. _In the origin tale," Hermione said in a distinctly academic voice, "the maiden who was in a deep sleep was raped then left behind."

"Oh," Harry said, eyes wide.

"Yeah," agreed Hermione. "I'd say that's deeply horrific."

Harry nodded, then to break the tension in the air, cleared his throat and changed the subject drastically. "At least, your costume is fairly straightforward," he said to Hermione. "The Wicked Witch of the West," he mused. "Why did you choose her?"

"Well, Daph and I were talking about it and – Well, the press is pretty much going to paint me as a villain no matter what I dress up as tonight," Hermione held up her left hand, now significantly heavier than her right due to the overlarge diamond sitting neatly on her ring finger. "I figured I might as well lean into it."

"I was already making an emerald satin gown for her," added Daphne with a proud smile. The gown Hermione wore had a fitted corset and enormous ballgown skirt with a dramatic forked train; it was all a deep emerald green, and her makeup mirrored the color scheme with a dramatic black winged liner and deep green (almost black) lipstick. Hermione felt powerful. "It wasn't very difficult to add a little bit of witchy flourish here and there. Evil, but elegant," she winked.

"Evil?" Theo repeated. He shook his head, then ruled, "Hardly. Misunderstood, perhaps, but not evil."

"She's literally called the _Wicked Witch of the West_. What the fuck are you talking about, Nott?" Harry argued, ebony brows furrowed in frustration.

Draco chuckled under his breath, then leaned down to whisper in Hermione's ear. "Listen to this, you'll probably find it enlightening – or at least amusing." Hermione raised her eyebrows quizzically, then asked what he meant by that when she noticed all of the others (who didn't used to be outsiders, unlike Harry and herself) sighed and readied themselves for a lengthy argument, one they already heard more than enough times by the looks of it. By the time Draco confirmed as much for Hermione, however, she'd already missed some of the argument between Harry and Theo.

"Hold on! Hold on!" Theo shouted. "Her sister was a witch, right?" He demanded. Harry nodded, albeit reluctantly. "And what was her sister? A princess! The Wicked Witch of the East, Potter." Harry opened his mouth to disagree (though on what terms, Hermione did not know) but Theo cut him off with his forefinger. "You're going to look at me, and you're going to tell me I'm wrong? Am I wrong?" He scoffed, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. "She wore a crown and she came down in a bubble. Grow up, Potter,"

Another uncomfortable silence fell between them, but this time Hermione was the one who broke it.

"Actually," she said, glancing between Harry and Theo. "I'm sorry, Theo, but Harry's right. She was a good witch, not a princess. She even called herself a _good witch_." Theo's eye twitched but he said nothing, instead choosing to drain his glass and go off to refill it. Hermione glanced around at the others, who bit their lips and stared at her, speechless; she suspected any of them could have told him as much (for however long he held this opinion) but chose not to because of how passionate Theo was about the subject.

"What the fuck is Loony doing?" Theo demanded, jerking Hermione's mind back to the present. She followed his icy gaze to where Luna traipsed between the guests, looking shaken and paranoid but no more than usual.

"She doesn't like when you call her Loony," Hermione stated calmly.

"Fine, Luna – Lovegood – Whatever. What is she doing?"

"Why is she _barefoot?_" Pansy gasped, raising a hand to cover her mouth.

Hermione shrugged. "It fits her costume."

"It's not exactly canon for Rapunzel to be barefoot simply because she was stuck in a tower, but I suppose it's not entirely unbelievable." Daphne supplied. "But what I would like to know is why she has _weapons_ interwoven in her braid. I didn't give her those for the costume," she said defensively.

"Those aren't real weapons, are they?" Pansy choked.

"Oh, they most certainly are," Harry confirmed with a grim nod. "I saw her take them from your room, actually, Hermione."

"What?" She blinked. "You didn't think to _mention_ that?" Hermione glanced back at the young woman; she'd been invited as she and her father were notable members of high society – despite their lunacy or because of it, she wasn't sure – and didn't hesitate to jump at the opportunity to escape the Manor to a place where Alecto Carrow could not follow her. Judging from the paranoid behavior and very real weaponized pins gleaming from her hair, Luna must not be entirely convinced Miss Carrow was not invited or would not sneak in to avenge her brother.

"One of us should keep an eye on her," said Pansy. Her dark eyes fell pointedly on Hermione and Harry, who had the displeasure of somewhat befriending Luna.

"I can't," Hermione said quickly. "I have to rescue Draco and parade around a bit more with him. Narcissa insists we convince as many people as possible tonight that we're madly in love and planning a massive wedding," she lamented, rolling her eyes. An enormous wedding was the last thing she wanted, not that anyone cared what she thought on the subject. "Speaking of – Where _is_ Narcissa? I thought she was going to arrive just after you all?" Draco and Hermione were invited much earlier than the others, per Churchill's request.

"She changed her mind at the last minute," supplied Pansy. "She's not coming."

While that was immensely suspicious behavior, Hermione couldn't dwell on it at the moment. "Oh, ok. Well, have any of you seen Astoria and–"

"Ah," mused Theo, nodding over Hermione's head. "Speak of the devil, and she doth appear."

Hermione turned to see Astoria, with Oliver on her arm looking rather uncomfortable, approaching. She gave her friend a quick hug, then watched, idly amused, as Theo and Astoria began their usual banter.

"I see you didn't bother to dress up for the gala," he observed aloud. "No need, I suppose, when one is already an antagonist in reality."

"Are you suggesting that the Queen of Hearts is a form of Satan?" Astoria countered, gesturing to her very iconic gown and headdress. She tutted softly and mockingly. "Gatsby, Nott? I expected better from you, I must say," she sneered.

"Oh, bloody hell," Pansy swore, interrupting them. "What on earth is she doing, _now?_ Someone better get over there right away before she–"

"Fine," Harry sighed. "I'll go." He started to tug Pansy along with him, and she immediately objected. "You're my date, remember?" He said coldly. "If I have to go babysit Luna, then you have to come, too."

"Potter, you absolute–"

"Shh," hissed Daphne. She pursed her lips, then looped her arm in Theo's. "Come on," she said. "We'll all go." Before any of them could disperse among the crowd in the ballroom, Luna appeared at their side and scared half of them to death; Oliver, Astoria and Theo were, interestingly, unbothered by her sudden appearance.

"Fuck," Luna swore. "I fucking hate these things. I forgot how stuffy these people were and how much they dislike the word _fuck_. It's fucking absurd," she grimaced. "Hm," she grunted, bright blue eyes trailing up and down Hermione's figure. "I would have fucking thought you would have dressed up as a fucking swot, Granger."

"That's not–"

"Fuck off," Luna retorted.

Astoria ducked her head to hide her laughter, and Pansy glanced nervously around to make sure no one nearby heard anything.

"You're so bloody clever, fucking hell." Luna tilted her head to the side, narrowed her eyes, then proposed another riddle for Hermione to solve. "When is a door not a fucking door, eh? Figure that fucking one out–"

"When it's ajar," Hermione and Astoria replied in unison. They smirked at each other, then turned to Luna, smirking more. She only returned their expression with a mischievous smirk of her own.

"What fucking falls yet never fucking breaks, and what fucking breaks yet never fucking falls?"

"This is ridiculous," sniffed Pansy.

Harry scoffed, "You only think that because you can't solve it."

"Ouch, Pans," smirked Theo, shooting Harry an appreciative wink.

"Oi, fuck off – We're fucking busy here. These aren't just some silly fucking riddles," snapped Luna.

Daphne, confused, whispered to Pansy, "Isn't that exactly what they are?"

Luna, very intoxicated and losing her patience, snapped her fingers at Daphne to get her attention. Once she had it, she hissed, "I said _fuck off_. What part didn't you understand, eh? The fuck – or the off?" Pansy looked like she wanted to say something, but Harry and Theo chose that moment to drag both of their dates off for a new round of drinks. Luna turned back to Oliver, Astoria, and Hermione; she kept her eyes fixed on the latter. "What fucking falls yet never fucking breaks, and what fucking breaks yet never fucking falls?"

"I–"

"_Fucking think, Granger,_"

Hermione did; her mind buzzed and whirled, going into overdrive. Her innate need to be right, to know everything, and to prove her intelligence always seemed to trump her wish to ignore Luna's stupid riddles. Which, according to her, weren't insignificant at all.

"Night and day," Oliver finally said.

All three women looked at him, and Luna nodded. "About fucking time of you fucking got it," she muttered, turning to leave.

"Wait," Hermione said, reaching out to wrap her hand around the woman's wrist. "Give us another one."

"You want another riddle?" Luna clarified. Hermione nodded, biting her lip. "Hm," she grunted. "Right, well. If you don't fucking figure this one out, Granger, then you're fucking doomed." Luna cleared her throat, then whispered, barely enough for Hermione to make it out, "The more of it there is, the less you see. What is it?"

What hadn't bothered Hermione about the riddle was that Luna singled her out as doomed if she didn't solve it – the dramatic, ominous statement wasn't entirely out of character – but the fact that Luna didn't utter a single _fuck_ nor did she stay to see if Hermione could solve it. She bolted away, trailed immediately by Astoria and Oliver, who volunteered to keep an eye on her; Hermione, feeling uneasy, set off to find Draco, who was no longer engaged in conversation with Bagman.

Hermione wandered halfway through the ballroom, craning her neck for her golden sun god; a hand caught her wrist and tugged her back toward him. She immediately smiled, thinking it was Draco who found her, but her smile fell off her face the moment she realized it was _not_ Draco who took hold of her.

"Elphaba," drawled Tom. "How charming."

Hermione's lips curled with distaste.

"William the Conqueror. An interesting choice considering he was equally as villainous as he was heroic. He also wasn't fictional, Tom." Hermione noted, narrowing her eyes at Tom's kingly costume. William the Conqueror's achievements were not as glorious as history typically depicted; he was brave but undeniably brutal – a warlord who made himself master of a kingdom, and arguably no king of England has ever possessed a more unwavering ability to force his own will.

"Hm," Tom breathed. The corner of his lips twitched upwards, but the rest of his expression was stoic and still; he was not to be trifled with. "I was going to give you one last chance to rethink your choice, Hermione, but I can see now that your mind has already been quite made up."

"What are you–"

"That is a beautiful diamond," he stated, turning over the wrist he gripped so tightly to reveal the sparkling ring on Hermione's finger. Her breathing hitched, and her heart raced.

"Wait – No – Narcissa–"

"I see you've made your decision, Hermione." Tom said, dropping her wrist and turning to leave. He nodded over her shoulder, and she glanced back to see Draco making his way through the crowd, looking for her in all of his beautiful golden glory. "I hope you can learn to live with its consequences," was the last thing Hermione heard before the weight of the threat settled in her veins.

She had to tell Draco – She _had_ to.

But how?

* * *

**A/N - **I hope everyone is staying safe and taking care of themselves. Although I wished I was currently working on a lighter project right now, I am leaning into the escape from reality writing this story provides. There are only four additional chapters so, expect an update every Sunday until completion at the end of the month. Thank you for taking the time to read this, and review, it truly means so much to me. (PS - if you caught the reference to the hilarious video of the wicked witch, then I applaud you lol)

This chapter title comes from Nicki Minaj's song _Yikes_ from the lines _I don't play with demons, Satan, get thee behind_ (but it is not in reference to Astoria) xx


	7. Sip of the Glorious

**Chapter 7: Sip of the Glorious**

* * *

_7 May 1929_

_WEDDING OF THE DECADE: _

_THE LOVE STORY OF MISS GRANGER AND LORD MALFOY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_In lieu of recognizing Lord Malfoy's career accomplishments and their tie to Miss Granger, one cannot simply overlook her own career accomplishments and why he may have been so open and trustworthy with crediting much of his success to her. Most young adults probably aspire to be like Miss Granger, especially after seeing her effervescent cover of _Forbes, _the popular American magazine. Miss Granger, who we have already established had many career changes thanks to her diverse portfolio, managed to do what little could ever hope to achieve – for any man or woman! – which is to climb all the way from the bottom to the top of a renowned company. From the moment she acquired the coveted role of Chief Executive Officer_–

Bloody hell.

There is truly no winning with this woman – _she_ is Satan, if you ask me.

I'm going to stop right there because despite the fact that the _Forbes_ interview went extremely well considering everything, Rita still found some way to make me appear to be a power-hungry, greedy little bitch. No, honey, I am _not_ after Draco for his wealth and status. If I was, then I probably wouldn't have lasted so long, or be as irreparably in love with him as I currently am.

The last bloody thing I wanted (especially at the time) was to take over Narcissa's role as CEO of the family company. What a fucking joke, honestly.

So, rather than continue to read this fuckery, I'm going to share some (most) of the _Forbes_ interview because even though Rita mentions the _Forbes_ interview in her article, I guarantee that she didn't read it. Otherwise, she wouldn't have claimed to be without personal details of Draco and I's relationship. Then again, perhaps she did read it and simply didn't like what I had to say – and I had a lot to say.

_IN ONE NIGHT, MISS HERMIONE GRANGER BECAME THE YOUNGEST FEMALE BILLIONAIRE AND CEO EVER._

_By Seraphina Picquery_

_In mid-June, Miss Hermione Granger marked a milestone moment without much celebration. To be fair, the woman had literally just given birth. Miss Granger was best known, firstly, as the bushy-haired woman on Lord Draco Malfoy's arm. Secondly, and more deservingly, she was known as the clever mind behind much of Lord Malfoy's beautiful words, and she even lent her brilliance to his company, Malfoy Company Limited, as Chief Operations Officer from 1925. Now, however, she is known for so much more. Miss Granger is a young mother, a fiancée, and the youngest female billionaire and Chief Executive Officer to start._

_When I ask her how she feels about those labels, she bites her lip and says, "I don't like to think of myself as any of those things. I didn't do anything to deserve them." Miss Granger laughs, then adds, "Except, perhaps, the part about being a mother. Giving birth was a – Oh, sorry! Can't say that." Miss Granger and I take advantage of the warm autumn day and head outside to talk. We sit across from each other in a stark white gazebo in the gorgeous gardens of the family estate, better known as the Malfoy Manor. Miss Granger tells me that she's been living in the estate for the better part of a decade, to which I cannot hide my surprise. She gives me a small smile paired with a shrug and assures me that most of those in the Malfoy inner circle reside in the house. "It's certainly got the room so, [Lord Malfoy] doesn't see the point of not accommodating those with whom he regards as family." Eloquently stated and interestingly followed by her lifting a finger to point out one of the windows overlooking the gardens and saying, "That one's mine." Though many talked about the brilliance of this woman seen all over the British press, none mentioned how witty she is, too. _

_It occurs to me that we are talking about the house, the gardens, and the weather for precisely the reason that people make small talk: in order to dance around deeper, perhaps even darker, topics. A few minutes into the conversation and Miss Granger is already crying, though she assures me it's from her unbalanced hormones post-partum. "I'm sorry," she says as the sobs suddenly let up as if the faucet had been shut off. "This happens quite often, I'm afraid. The only viable way I have found so far to stop the crying is to hold the baby. Apparently imagining I'm doing so helps, too." We talk for a while about her newborn (whose gender is still unknown, and which she continues to evade) then I make the time-old mistake of asking her why the baby isn't currently in her arms. Miss Granger purses her lips. "I expected more from you." She tells me, and I immediately understand what I did wrong. I apologize for asserting misogynistic roles onto her, and she nods her approval. I discover instantly why so many people fawn over this woman and scramble for her love and attention because a single nod of approval has me reeling for more. "The baby is inside with [Lord Malfoy," she tells me with a smile. "He's a wonderful father and fiancé and is very attentive to my needs as well as the baby's, but that's just the thing, isn't it? He's inside rocking the baby to sleep, and he's viewed as a saint while I step out for a chat and am painted as a failure. The world shouldn't celebrate fathers for doing the bare minimum. I certainly don't. It's very sexist – parenthood, that is _– _if you ask me." Once again, I am floored by her depth when the British press have done little to commemorate her real value; I no longer question why or how Lord Malfoy fell in love with this woman and entrusted his company to her leadership. Naturally, we continue to talk about feminism and the need for more feminist activism in both America and Great Britain. _

There's more to the interview, of course, and with a heavier emphasis on my career achievements and newly achieved status as a billionaire, but who really cares to hear about that nonsense? Not me. Again, I am undeserving. But I will say that Ms. Picquery was one of the nicest reporters I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, which is why I had no trouble becoming so comfortable, and subsequently more open, with her.

1928 was a whirlwind year for me, from start to finish, and I'm starting to think it was really just a warm-up for 1929, and tomorrow will be the real test.

* * *

_13 February 1928_

Under normal circumstances, Hermione imagined she would have been instructed to lead an attack against a rival gang or fight the strongest members of this gang, but neither of those were viable options because these were not normal circumstances. At least, according to Draco they weren't and what Draco said was law in the Death Eater family. Hermione insisted she could very well handle _either_ of the usual initiation rituals, but Draco was firm in his refusal to let her do so and thus, Hermione would have to be initiated into the Death Eaters – and become an official member – some other way; an entirely new way because, god forbid, she was _indisposed_.

Hermione hated that word, but since she often woke in the middle of the night to empty her stomach contents, she couldn't help but understand why it was used; she was excited to be entering her second trimester because, according to Narcissa and Marietta, the nausea would let up, or otherwise stop completely. Millie disagreed. She was nauseous her entire pregnancy, apparently, and Hermione prayed she wouldn't have to put up with that.

It took several days for Draco – and Theo, because when was Theo _not_ involved? – to come up with a viable initiation ritual for Hermione to undergo in her condition, and later that evening, she would finally learn what it entailed.

"Come on," she begged, tugging on Theo's sleeve, "tell me. I'll pretend like I don't anything, I _swear_. I can't go in blind, Theo. I hate surprises, you know that."

"Sorry, Hermione," he smirked, shifting away from her to drape an arm over Harry's shoulders. "Can't tell you. Boss' orders," he winked. Hermione groaned. Draco was certainly overindulging in her mild agitation at not knowing what was coming; he'd been secretive about it for days, yet he never passed up an opportunity to taunt her. Theo took a long drag from a cigarette, "Oh, I can't wait for you to be an official member of the family." Hermione waited a beat, knowing there was more to this apparent compliment from knowing Theo. And there was. "All of our problems will become your problems."

"Your problems have _always_ been my problems, too," she retorted, rolling her eyes. Hermione leaned over and pinched a chocolate biscuit from Harry, dunking it in her lukewarm tea, then devouring it. "Fuck, I would _kill_ for a bar of bitter, dark chocolate right now. Do we have any, do you know?" Harry and Theo shrugged, and the latter of the two men shouted for Dobby. He appeared in the sitting room doorway a moment later. Theo flicked his wrist toward Hermione, and she mumbled – suddenly shy for reasons unknown – "Dobby, could I bother you for a bar of chocolate if we have any?"

"Yes, miss, of course. Dobby will find some in the kitchen,"

"Thank you," Hermione smiled. She continued to berate Theo for answers until Dobby returned with a bar of chocolate in one hand and a fresh cup of tea in the other. "Oh my…" Hermione gaped, taking the proffered items from Dobby. "Thank you – Dobby – So kind of you–"

"That's milk chocolate," Harry observed aloud. "Didn't you say you wanted dark?"

"Oh! Dobby is sorry, miss, Dobby will find some right away–"

"No!" Hermione wailed in between sobs, clutching the bar to her chest, away from Dobby's outreached hand. "No, Dobby, it's perfect. Thank you," she sniffled, smiling weakly as he nodded hesitantly and left the room.

"Bloody hell, Hermione," chuckled Theo. "You're a right mess of hormones."

"Shut up," she pouted, plopping a piece of chocolate into her mouth. She tossed a large piece to Harry, who nodded his appreciation.

"Ah, there she is," chimed Draco, striding into the room wearing an exquisite three-piece charcoal suit and a blinding smile. Hermione arched a brow; she hadn't seen him this openly ecstatic around the Manor since… Well since never. It was highly suspicious. "The woman of the hour," he winked, bending to place a kiss on the top of her head. "It's time." He announced, then nodded to Theo. "They're waiting for you in the garden." Then, to Hermione he added, "Ready?"

"Are you finally going to tell me what I should be ready _for_?" Hermione countered. Harry laughed, shooting her a sly grin as he followed Theo out of the room.

"No," he scoffed. "Put this on."

Hermione frowned at the black fabric meant to be a blindfold.

"What? Why? You literally _just_ said everyone was waiting in the garden so, why do I need this if I know where I'm going?"

He shrugged.

"It's tradition."

"Well, it's stupid."

"That doesn't change the fact that it's tradition." Draco stated. He slipped the fabric out of her hand and gestured politely for her to turn. Reluctantly, Hermione did and was delivered to a world of darkness a few seconds later.

"This whole ordeal is a bit much, don't you think? I've practically been a Death Eater for years." Hermione huffed; her hand closed in Draco's and she blindly followed him through the winding corridors of the Manor until a chilling breeze tickled her hair. She shivered; without a coat, the winter winds were biting. "Draco, I'm freezing, can't we go back inside for a coat?"

"Unfortunately, no, we can't."

"What do you _mean_ no?" Hermione bristled. "This whole ritual is in _your hands_ in case that detail slipped your mind. Can't you tell them to wait, like, three minutes? I won't be long." When he didn't answer, instead continuing to guide her through what she presumed to be Narcissa's gardens from the waft of floral scents. "You don't want our unborn child to freeze, do you, Draco?" Hermione prompted.

"I know what you're trying to do," replied Draco with a hint of amusement in his tone, "and it won't work." He placed a kiss to the back of the neck, and this time when Hermione shivered, it wasn't from the winter air. They walked on – more cautiously, Hermione noticed – for a few minutes, then a sudden surge of warmth surrounded them.

"Bloody hell," she swore, grateful.

"Close, but not quite," came a mocking tone that could only belong to Pansy.

Gently, Draco removed the blindfold from around Hermione's eyes, and as her vision adjusted to the scene before her, she felt a smile spread across her face. In disbelief, she glanced over her shoulder at Draco. He was smirking. "Well," he said, gesturing her forward, toward the others, "let's get started, shall we?"

A few hours later, Hermione crawled into bed and tucked Draco under her arms, running her nails up and down his spine; his cheek was pressed up against her small bump. "That was… interesting," she murmured.

"Yes, it was, but I thought it suited you quite well."

"It did," she agreed.

Hermione drifted to sleep with the thought of the Death Eaters on her mind. She first thought back to when she first encountered them; the fine clothing Draco and Theo wore, along with the fine car they drove, weren't inherently mob-like which is why it took her completely by surprise when they engaged in a street with none other than Harry and some of the Weasley boys. Their use of bladed newsboy caps was peculiar, but even that didn't alert to their involvement in one of London's most notorious gangs. Dinner in the Manor – the first of many – that evening was where Hermione finally started to grasp the depths of their criminal nature; still, she didn't know what their tie to the Death Eaters.

_There was the ambiguity of the Death Eaters to start. Who were they? What was their goal? Were they just some high-class gang that ran the streets of London with violence and oppression? Or, did they have a larger agenda that involved a political movement with Draco and Theo as the new, young and attractive face of the company and a hidden vengeance?_

Evidently, even before Hermione knew anything about the infamous Draco Malfoy and his Death Eaters, she pin pointed everything she would come to learn about them, and other than noting Theo rather than herself as Draco's counterpart in his new movement – which even she would have been unlikely to predict, much less believe, until it happened – Hermione had gotten everything right. What had Luna said to her? _I think you know far more than even you realize_. Yes, as it turns, out Hermione was twice as clever as everyone claimed her to be, and yet there was still so much she didn't understand. Pushing the unpleasant thought out of her mind, Hermione recalled the conversation that spurred her initiation into the Death Eaters.

"You'll be one of us," Draco said, taking her hand in his. Hermione shifted, finding a more comfortable position on his lap and buried her head in his neck.

"I thought I was already one of you," Hermione noted.

"Not technically, but this will ensure it. It's tradition more than anything else, but…" He shrugged. "It's important. It matters more than marriage." Draco added, twisting Hermione's engagement ring around her finger idly (the engagement was still very much fake even if the enormous diamond on her finger was decidedly _not_).

Hermione thought of Marietta and Millie; both women were married to Death Eaters and both were raising a family, possibly even future Death Eaters themselves, as well. Yet, neither of them was official members of the gang. They weren't privy to its secrets and on goings; a luxury Hermione had been granted for years now. To her, the ritual felt immensely unnecessary. Couldn't they simply _call_ her a Death Eater and be done with it? Apparently, not.

"Astoria didn't have to go through an initiation ceremony," Hermione protested.

"No," agreed Draco. "But Astoria isn't a Death Eater – Not officially, anyway,"

"How come?"

"She didn't want to be." Draco cupped his hand over Hermione's cheek, stroking his thumb along the curve of her cheekbone, then gently nudged her face out so his grey gaze could meet hers. "Astoria's been given many opportunities to become a Death Eater, but she refused each time and so, we stopped asking."

"But Pansy and Daphne are Death Eaters," Hermione recalled, thinking back to when they were still enrolled in university and underwent the secret initiation ritual during one of the school breaks. "Officially," she added, catching the trace of ambiguity in her statement."

"Yes, they are."

Hermione chewed her bottom lip, and her hand absentmindedly fell to her stomach. Draco's, per usual, lay over hers not a moment later. A little family.

"You don't have to," he told her. "You don't have to officially join the Death Eaters – It's entirely up to you."

"But?" Hermione asked, sensing the word in the tone of Draco's voice.

His fingers interlaced with hers before he lifted them from her non-existent bump to his lips. "But it would mean the world to me if you did." Draco murmured against her skin.

Hermione melted. "Okay," she finally said, curling herself back into his chest and inhaling the rich scent of his aftershave. She pressed a kiss to the base of his throat, watching their intertwined hands hang in the air with her peripheral vision. "Okay, I'll do it. Because it means so much to you,"

"I don't want you do it just for me–"

"It's not just for you." Hermione said, shaking her head and lifting it to meet his eye again; the shimmering silver sparkled with a mix of elation and disbelief. Hermione lived in their gorgeous hue for a moment longer, then went on. "It's not just for you. I'd be lying if I said this isn't exactly what I wanted the moment I realized my love for you wasn't going anywhere, but – but it's also because I know it will make you happy, and that's something I want more than anything else."

It was, quite possibly, the truest confession Hermione could have made. Ultimately, it came down to their mutual prosperity and happiness, but it was more than that. It was the fact that, for as long as she can remember, all she ever wanted was to join Draco in everything he did, including ruling his empire of Death Eaters. He was their leader – their revered king – and Hermione had always respected his position and his influence; they obeyed him not out of fear, but out of undying loyalty and love. Hermione wanted that – she wanted to be part of that.

A long time ago, she deemed herself his queen, mainly in aspects of the bedroom, but she hadn't really been queen. She was a silent partner; a voice that whispered in the king's ear but held no substantial importance on the board. In the game of chess, if she wasn't the queen, then what was she?

Nothing.

_Would Hermione somehow be able to save Draco's soul and guide him toward the light?_

_Or…_

_Would she fall from grace and end up beside him on his throne in the pits of hell?_

Again, Hermione had been right, more so than she could imagine, back when she first arrived into the Manor and Draco Malfoy's life. To the best of her abilities, Hermione believed she had saved Draco's damned soul; he was a good man, and she had no doubt he would make a good father. Still, Hermione did fall from grace; she killed and plotted and was hardly the picture of innocence and morality that she was before meeting Draco. Ruling beside him in his throne had been a fear of hers in the beginning, and yet now it was all she ever wanted – power and trust.

And she achieved it all… so, now what?

Hermione's hand instantly fell to her bump; everything she knew was about to change because everything she wanted no longer rise and fell on the whims of powerful men – at the hands of kings and lords – but on the breath of her unborn child. Everything Hermione had, or would ever come to have, belonged not to herself, but to her child and its legacy. A family with an undying love for one another was something she never had the luxury of experiencing, that is until she met Draco and his Death Eaters. Their fierce and unwavering loyalty was awe-inspiring. She coveted it, and now she had it; now she understood it.

More than anything, Hermione wanted her child to grow up loved, cared for, and protected.

She would do _anything_ to ensure that happened.

Unfortunately for her, this familial aspiration might come at the cost of some of the family she came to obtain over the past several years; Narcissa was a traitor, but she was also in danger, and Hermione still hadn't told Draco of her findings.

She told herself she wanted to be sure – without a shadow of a doubt – that Narcissa's betrayal was fact for only then would she tell Draco the truth. But to do so, she would need help.

The next morning, Hermione pulled Theo and Blaise aside.

Without a job or any other source of a stable schedule, Sunday felt the same as any other day of the week to Hermione. She rolled over and kissed Draco in bed, got ready with the help of Winky, then headed to the dining room for breakfast. Draco and Narcissa were adamant about maintaining the baby's health and even went to great lengths to ensure Madam Pomfrey visited the home nearly every day; she was the one responsible for dictating Hermione's food regimen. Dobby usually placed a separate plate, already full of food, in front of Hermione while the others served themselves from the buffet between them. That morning, like most others, Hermione's stomach rolled at the sight of her breakfast. Hermione argued her right to forfeit whole-grain oatmeal and plain yogurt for buttery, syrup-coated pancakes – a reoccurring event – but was thoroughly denied the swap. It didn't matter. She ate her sad breakfast in between grimaces, then found Winky and instructed her to steal some peanut butter and gherkins from the kitchen for her to snack on over her morning walk around the gardens.

That morning, however, Hermione caught Theo and Blaise each by the elbow as they made to leave the Manor for whatever work (or, in Theo's case, crime) they had planned for that day.

"Hey," she said loudly, coming up behind them and steering them away from the garage and toward the gardens instead. "I need to talk to you two." Because Pansy was passing nearby in the corridor, she added, "It's about Draco's birthday this year. I want to do something special."

"You of all people know he hates to make a fuss of birthdays," said Blaise, "_especially_ his."

"Oh, fucking hell," groaned Theo. "Do you remember Eton? When he–"

"Bloody hell that was rough."

"What was she _thinking_?"

"She wasn't."

"Touché," commended Theo with a conspiratorial wink toward Blaise. "In all fairness, if Astoria was _my_ sister, then I would certainly feel inclined to take things into my own hands and–"

"Will both of you shut up?" Hermione huffed. They were finally out of earshot from the Manor, and in another minute, once they rounded the first corner of hedges, they would be out of sight, too. "This isn't about Draco's birthday. I lied."

"Well, I figured you weren't that dull, Granger." Theo mused, rolling his eyes and lighting a cigarette. He passed the light to Blaise, then went on. "What, pray tell, then is the reason you so unceremoniously dragged us out into the cold? I'm sure Zabini here has some rather boring and meaningless task of numbers to get to, and I have to take Malcolm and–"

"It's about Narcissa." Hermione blurted out. Honestly, she couldn't see a better way to ease into the conversation. Besides, it _was_ freezing, and she didn't want to have to spend any more time outside than she had to. "She's betraying us – sending money to known communists."

Both men stopped dead in their tracks.

"Does Draco know?" They asked in unison. Hermione exhaled a deep breath, then shook her head. Blaise immediately sputtered nonsense, cursing under his breath, and Theo snapped, "Well, why the bloody hell not?" He stopped himself, lowered his tone and flicked his wrist, brushing off the temper. "Never mind. It's probably nothing. Where did you get this ludicrous idea from anyway?"

"That's the thing, I'm not entirely certain it is ludicrous." Hermione bit her lip. "I saw in the company books that she was sending large sums of money to a Voldemort Incorporated, then I–" She hesitated, unwilling to divulge her source for the next piece of information. "There was evidence that Voldemort Incorporated is a shell company being used to fund a communist party in London."

There was a beat of silence, then, "Yet you haven't told Draco any of this?"

Hermione nodded meekly at Theo. "I wanted to be absolutely sure before I said anything."

"Which is why," Blaise sighed, "I take it we're here?"

Again, she nodded.

"Lovely," snorted Theo. "Fucking lovely."

"If you could just – Keep an eye out or take a look–"

"You realize what you're asking us to do, don't you?" Theo snapped. "Not only are you implying that we _continue_ to keep this a secret from Draco, but also you want us to knowingly violate his and Narcissa's trust–"

"Yes," interrupted Hermione. "But look at the alternative! You, Theo, should know better than anyone the consequences of colluding with known communists in this day and age. _You've killed people for less._" Her words hung in the frigid air, frozen and threatening. "Not to mention, you were sanctioned for a similar job, which came to Draco through completely legal means. Imagine what those same people would do if they found out his own mother was responsible for funding their enemies? What do you think they would do?"

"Fucking hell," Blaise groaned.

"All I'm asking," Hermione went on, "is to be _absolutely sure_ that is what Narcissa is doing."

"Fine," snapped Theo. "Fine. Blaise can take a look at the books and follow the money. I'll keep an ear to the ground and see if anyone has ever heard of Voldemort Incorporated, or if there's a massive communist party uprising under our noses." He paused. "But, Granger, if you're fucking right about this–"

"I know."

They nodded, all sharing the same, solemn expression.

"Very well," said Blaise. "As soon as we find anything, we'll let you know."

* * *

"You shouldn't be here."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Theo, then continued to walk past him and through his bar. "I was bored of the house and wanted to see your revered establishment, Nott. Is that a crime?" Her gloved finger trailed the length of the bar, and she followed behind it with a blank expression, lifting it only briefly to smile at the barmaid Rosmerta. "It looks even better than the last time I was here," she noted with a taunting smirk.

Theo huffed, exhaling a cloud of smoke. He signaled to Rosmerta for two whiskeys, then doubled his effort to persuade Hermione out of his bar. "It is a crime if you're supposed to be at home," he told her. "Bedrest isn't allowed to be lifted for any reason, if I recall correctly."

"I'm pregnant, not–" the word _indisposed_ caught on the tip of her tongue, but she settled for, "dying." "As thankful as I am to be enormously pregnant, I have no intention of returning to any form of imprisonment in that house. Besides, I wanted to hear what you have to say about a certain Malfoy with a penchant for deception and betrayal. It's been months, and neither of you have found anything substantial. How am I supposed to tell Draco on what little evidence I have? Or, worse, how am I supposed to keep this from him any longer?"

"If I had anything worth telling you, I would have mentioned it by now, don't you think? It's not as if the idea of," – he paused, eying Rosmerta and the few others occupying the bar this early in the day – "_her_ being guilty of what you're accusing her of is any solace to me. I don't want it to be true as much as I don't want to have to keep it from Draco."

"But Blaise–"

"Blaise is having enough trouble trying to access the books, much less deciphering and tracking a particular transaction, Granger."

"Still, we don't have time to–"

"Shh," Theo hissed, suddenly gripping her elbow. He relaxed his hold on her to one more akin to comfort, then gave her a lopsided smile, before subtly nodding over her shoulder. "Hermione, I told you, you need to go home. Malcolm and I have quite enough on our plate without your added distraction of – Ah, Mac. There you are," he said, turning to greet the young man striding into the bar. Hermione spun around, one hand instinctively resting on the bottom of her swollen belly, then offered a kind smile of her own.

Malcolm blinked, obviously shocked by her presence, but relaxed in her company after a moment. "I didn't expect to see you here, Miss Granger."

"Hermione, please," she said.

His lips quirked upwards into a ghost of a smile, then he jutted his chin out to Theo. "We better get started. There's already a queue outside."

"Right," sighed Theo. He exhaled a cloud of smoke to his left and nodded to Malcolm. "Go ahead and bring the first one in." As Malcolm walked briskly back across the bar and out the door, Theo turned to Hermione with an exasperated expression. "If you're going to stay, you might as well sit in on this. It's tedious, but perhaps you'll find it more interesting than whatever normally occupies that clever brain of yours at the Manor. Afterwards, though," he said, ushering her into the comfortable booth of a private room off to the side of the main bar area, "I'm taking you straight back to the Manor."

Hermione sighed.

As man after man came and went from their private booth, each with a rap sheet to rival the next, Hermione's faith in this task of theirs dwindled as well as her sense of security in the filthy, crime-ridden city. It was one thing to be involved in a one of the most notorious crime families in London, but it was another to see, first-hand, what level of calm that family maintained on a daily basis; as much murder and theft existed now, she imagined how much more would exist if the Death Eaters didn't keep most everyone in line. The police, she mused, should be rewarding them, not condemning them.

"Why do you keep sending them away?" She asked after what felt like the hundredth man the afternoon left them. "What exactly are you looking for? They all seem perfectly capable of pulling off whatever crime you have planned for them so, I don't see why you aren't satisfied."

Theo sipped at his drink. "I'm not looking for a criminal."

Hermione wanted to press him for an explanation, but Malcolm arrived with the next man which prevented her from doing so; this man was as unlike the others as she could think. He was young, no more a boy than Malcolm, and didn't carry himself with an air of superiority; there was no confident smile playing across his lips. In fact, he appeared distinctly nervous to be standing before them.

"What's your name, boy?" Theo asked.

"Ben Ryder," he choked out.

Theo and Malcolm exchanged glances, then Theo said, "What's your real name?"

The boy stuttered, glancing nervously at Hermione every other second. Her brows furrowed, unsure as to why her presence made him so uncomfortable, and then she recalled her status as fiancée to Lord Draco Malfoy, a prominent man in parliament. She sighed.

"What's your name?" Hermione asked, aiming to keep her tone light.

"Barney Fitzherbert," he admitted, toying with his hands.

Malcolm choked on a laugh, hiding his face in his sleeve as Hermione shot a glare at him. She arched her brow warningly at Theo, whose eyes twinkled with mischief but otherwise remained quiet. In an attempt to alleviate the boy of any embarrassment, Hermione said, "That's a lovely name. I don't see why you don't use it, but never mind that. How old are you, Barney?"

"Nineteen, ma'am," he answered.

"Please don't call me ma'am," Hermione said, trying to ignore the chuckles emanating from Theo and Malcolm. "Nineteen," she repeated, "that's awfully young to be coming around here looking for a job for the Death Eaters. Does your mother know you're here?"

"Granger," cut in Theo with a grimace. "Cut it out."

Malcolm emptied his glass, then inclined his head at the boy. "Ignore her, she's feeling particularly hormonal today."

"Malcolm Flint, you bloody watch your mouth or I'll–"

"_Alright_," Theo snapped, putting up his hands between them. "Both of you, cut it out. Malcolm, that was entirely out of line, but Hermione, you _are_ being hormonal." At her fiery glare, he added, "He's not a child. He can do whatever he bloody pleases without his mother's consent, alright? Fucking hell, control yourself. I never would have pegged you for the coddling type," he breathed. Finally, he turned to the boy shuffling his feet before them. "Ever been arrested, Barney boy?"

"Y-Yes."

Theo arched an ebony brow, fixing his icy blue eyes on him.

"N-No," the boy amended.

"Good." Theo ruled, nodding askance to Malcolm who took the boy's name and address. "You're the first bloke we've had in here all day with no criminal record." Theo rested one arm over Hermione's shoulders. "Do you know what that means, Granger?" She shook her head, brows furrowed. "It means we can stand him up. Our home secretary wants something done about illegal gambling and drug trafficking," said Theo.

"About bloody time," winked Malcolm.

Hermione smirked, shaking her head.

"So?"

"So," Theo went on, "we help our coppers make their quota of convictions by having men stood up to be arrested." In a hushed whisper, he added to her, "Draco wants us to try and win back the coppers. Slughorn can be bought, or so it seems, so Blaise figures why don't we buy their allegiance and Draco approved." He took a drag, then raised his voice and directed his words at the boy again. "For a first offense, you'll get a week inside. And we," he said, pointing his glass at the boy, "will give you ten quid for your trouble. How does that sound?"

Barney Fitzherbert nodded vigorously. He left with a stupid grin and a hop in his step.

"The kid combined with a few of the New Order members and some of our wannabe Death Eaters should be enough to fill the coppers quota," mused Theo into his glass. He nodded first to Malcolm, then toward the door. "See to it that we get his address, Mac."

Malcolm tipped his glass back, emptying it, then left the private booth to do what he was told.

"Fucking hell," scoffed Theo once the room was quiet again. "Ben Ryder – _Ha. _Kids these days, eh, Granger?"

Hermione stood, having had enough nonsense for one day. "He didn't fight in the war, nor was he recruited to a violent gang like you and Mac," said Hermione. "Kids like that _stay kids_." Her hand fell to her bump again, and she started towards the door, pausing to glance over her shoulder at Theo. "Are you going to take me home now, or should I call for someone else?"

"No, I'll take you. Let's go."

* * *

After spending the entire weekend with Draco, she was grateful not to have to accompany him to work; while it was flattering that he was so protective over her and their unborn child, it was also infuriating that he tried to dictate what she was and was not fit to do. Hermione eventually got through to him that she was going to do as she pleased, but Draco still won by ensuring that whatever it was she wanted to do was safe. Thus, every day of the that week, Hermione found herself, in one form or another, under the watchful eye of someone else.

On Monday, her babysitters came in the form of one very lethal couple.

"Don't go getting all worked up on me now, Hermione." Astoria chided, shooting her a reproachful mock of disapproval. "If you go into early labor on my watch, then Draco is sure to have me killed or otherwise exiled from London. Neither of which, I have any intention of partaking in so, please, for fuck's sake, calm down."

"Astoria," huffed Hermione, ignoring her completely, "how would you feel if you were in my position?"

"Trapped, like a bird in a cage."

"Exactly! So, why don't you let me go and I'll–"

"Sorry, Hermione, I can't. I know it's hard, and it must be boring as fuck on top of that, but it's for your own safety. Not to mention, if the public sees just how pregnant you are, then the press will have a field day with the timing of everything." Astoria lamented. Hermione sighed, recalling Narcissa's plan to feign a premature birth by having the baby at home and keeping Hermione out of sight for the entirety of her last trimester. A rule which she broke not but three days ago by visiting Theo. "Will you pass me that jar on your left?" Astoria asked, bringing Hermione's mind back to the present.

"Here," she said, handing Astoria the tiny glass jar filled with a deep purple substance. "What is that?"

"Poison," she replied nonchalantly.

"Oh, right, of course. How silly of me to presume it would be anything else." Hermione mocked drily. She regarded the case Astoria was neatly packing with various items warily. "Are you sure you'll be back in time? Madam Pomfrey says the baby could come as early as two weeks from today."

"I'll be back before you know it." Astoria assured her with a charming smile. "Come," she said, looping her arm in Hermione's and leading her out of the room. "Let's go check on Oliver, shall we?"

They turned out into the corridor, then traipsed through the stifling Manor halls until they emerged downstairs and outside in the cool air; a slow breeze tickled the women's hair, sending Hermione's chestnut curls loose from her chignon and Astoria's black waves swirling around her face. As they struggled to descend the stone steps leading from the first level manicured lawns to second, and to the interwoven gardens beyond, another figure appeared, as if out of thin air, to aide in Hermione's descent.

"Thanks," she murmured, sparing Oliver Wood a grateful smile. "What are you doing out here?"

"Squeezing in some last-minute exercise before we head back up to Scotland," he replied; his hazel eyes sparkled in the sunlight so that flecks of green and gold danced between the warm brown. "Would you like to join me?"

"Oliver, I don't think that-"

"That's a great idea," Hermione cut in, unlooping her arm from Astoria in favor of following Oliver along the stone path that cut across the second level of manicured lawns. They passed several flower beds, where primroses sprung up, and metal benches arranged to look over the expansive gardens below. Finally, they stopped on the far end of the lawn, where the west wing of the Manor gleamed in the distance when Hermione glanced back over her shoulder.

"Alright, Hermione," said Oliver, taking a stance opposite her. "You know the drill. Give it your best,"

"Oh, don't worry," she smirked, raising her fists in typical boxing manner, "I plan to."

"Bloody hell," swore Astoria, shaking her head and stepping back. She kept close, though, and her sage green eyes never left Hermione. The sparring was slow and easy, but it was a welcome reprieve from the stuffy Manor sitting rooms, especially on such a lovely day.

* * *

On Tuesday, her babysitters were none other than the two women who actually had babies to sit.

At first, Hermione enjoyed being out of the Manor, but then she realized she was simply being driven to another stuffy estate, and one with considerably more noise.

"Tom, stop that!" Hermione winced as Marietta scolded her youngest son, who was currently trying to put a china doll in his mouth; the name stung even if the man she thought of when she heard it was nowhere near her. "_Thomas!_" Marietta screeched, crossing the room to scoop up the toddler in her arms. "What did Mum _just_ say, Tom?"

"But–"

"No," she scolded, rapping her hand across his tiny hand. The toddler began to cry, but Marietta held her ground. She swept past where Hermione sat to the other side of the sitting room, then called out into the hallway for her eldest son. "Junior! Junior, get down here!"

A lanky boy, looking eerily similar to his father, bounded downstairs and into the hallway; he swept back his brown hair, some of its longer curls falling into his face, now sheen with sweat, and exhaled. "Yes, Mum?" He said, giving her the tiniest huff of agitation that one might expect from a young teenage boy raised by Graham.

"Take Tom upstairs and put him down for a nap," she said, handing the still-crying toddler to the other boy. "Aunt Millie will be here soon as well so, when she comes, you and your brothers can go outside and play with Mary. Until then, keep an eye on him," – she pointed to the toddler – "and make sure he settles down."

"Yes, Mum," huffed the boy, struggling to get a good grip on his youngest brother, who took up the mischievous act of tugging on Graham Junior's hair. "Ouch, _fuck_," he swore, turning to head upstairs.

"_What was that?_" Marietta snapped, spinning on her heel to angle her head out into the hallway.

"Nothing, Mum!"

Marietta narrowed her eyes but ultimately returned to sit on the sofa opposite Hermione. She poured them both a fresh cup of tea, then took a long sip of hers despite the harmful temperature. "Boys," she groaned, placing the teacup on its saucer. "You better hope you're having a girl."

"You only say that because your boys are four of the most unruly, mischievous little men," came a new voice. Hermione's head lifted to see Millie striding into the room with a young girl clinging to her skirt. "Not all boys are like that." She took a seat next to Marietta, then reluctantly scooped up the child still clinging to her and settled her in her lap; the girl, who couldn't be any older than five, seemed too big to be sitting in her mother's lap, but Millie didn't appear to thwart the coddling. She stroked the girl's black curls, then took the proffered teacup from Marietta with a smile. "How are you, anyway? Are you holding up alright?"

"I'm fine," said Hermione.

"I bet you're ready for the baby to come, though," input Marietta. "When I was pregnant," – "Which time?" Millie asked smarmily – "All of them. God, I felt _horrible_. I was so ready for it to be over, and then I kept thinking, 'Maybe the next one won't be as bad?', but they were all rough. I was bloated beyond belief and so _bloody_ uncomfortable…" She shook her head, eying the other two women with a grim frown.

Millie shrugged. "I was uncomfortable toward the end, but I don't think I had nowhere near as many side effects as you did."

"Well count your bloody blessings," Marietta quipped in reply. "And you have the most well-behaved child to top it off," she scoffed. "As if that's fair."

Millie shrugged again, then turned to Hermione. "Are you really fine?"

"Well, I'm certainly not as uncomfortable as Marietta makes it out to seem." Truth be told, Hermione was loving being pregnant; she didn't elaborate on her glowing, easy pregnancy though out of respect to Marietta, who had to endure four horrific pregnancies by the sound of it, and who resented Millie for her docile pregnancy _and_ child.

"Have you picked out names yet?" Marietta asked. Millie released her daughter as Marietta's three elder sons bounded into the room, bringing with them shouts and ruckus. "Behave!" She called out to them, aiming a finger at the two younger sons. "I'm talking to you two," she added threateningly. "Arkham, so help me if I find out you're pushing your brother and Mary again, there will be hell to pay. You'll bloody _wish_ your father was the one punishing you, do you hear me?" The second-oldest son, who was no more than eight, nodded, but there was a glint in his brown eyes. "And Ian," she went on, now aiming her finger at the son who was roughly the same age as Mary, "don't bloody wind your brother up."

"Don't worry, Mum, I'll keep an eye on them," assured her eldest son.

"That hardly reassures me, Junior." Marietta muttered, then flicked her wrist and ordered the children to run around outside. She craned her neck to look out the large windows behind Hermione until she was satisfied the children were up to no good _away _from them. "So," Marietta said, directing her attention toward Hermione. "Names?"

"We haven't picked any names yet," she replied. Honestly, Draco was intent on choosing a name, but Hermione had quickly put a stop to that; she didn't want to risk the pain of naming the child only to lose it in childbirth, which was still a nasty and dangerous business.

"Hm," grunted Marietta. "Well, have you at least figured out what it's going to be?"

"You know we don't know that. There's no way to–"

"Narcissa would have a way," input Millie with a small smile. "She's been right about both of our children every time, and I would have thought she would have given you her two cents a long time ago."

Hermione shrugged.

"She didn't read your tea leaves?" Millie asked.

Marietta lifted her teacup to her lips, adding, "Or measure the size of your bump?"

"Or swing your engagement ring on a string over your bump?"

"Or read your palms?"

"Or consulted a Chinese lunar calendar?"

Hermione stared at the two women, who appeared to be entirely serious, and stuttered. "I – Err – No," she finally said. "No, she hasn't done any of those things. That I know of," Hermione added, frowning into her teacup.

"Interesting," Marietta ruled, taking another sip. "I bet she's at least done the lunar calendar, though."

"Most likely," agreed Millie. "The tea leaves too, I reckon."

* * *

On Wednesday, her babysitter was a sleep-deprived beauty with little care for what Draco thought of Hermione's escape the week prior.

"Hello, Hermione," greeted Daphne, poking her head up from between tufts of rich fabric. "You're welcome to help me today, if you like."

"Welcome to help you?" Hermione repeated, stepping into the dressing room taking careful steps so as not to step on any of the fabric, needles, or thread. "Aren't you supposed to be watching me? Shouldn't you be telling me I have no choice, _but_ to stay and help you?"

"Oh, sure," Daphne replied absentmindedly. She weighed two seemingly similar lavender shades in her hands, then selected the one in her right hand before glancing back up at Hermione with eyes that were the same exact shade of light green as her sister. "You should stay, of course, but you don't have to, and you certainly don't have to help."

"But Draco–"

"Screw that," scoffed Daphne. She flicked her wrist toward Hermione. "Unless you've changed your mind about the wedding planning and would like to talk about your dress?"

"No, thank you." Hermione quickly replied. So far – with the tantalizing taunt of an impending baby – Hermione and Draco managed to thwart and talk of their engagement (which was still fake) and wedding (which hadn't been planned in the slightest) but she knew that reprieve wouldn't last forever.

Daphne laughed. "I thought so." She put down her fabrics for a moment, fixing Hermione with her undivided attention. "You're perfectly capable of handling yourself, and I seriously doubt you'll get into that much trouble when you're about to pop any day now. Though, if I may add, _please_ don't actually go getting yourself into trouble. For my sake," she smiled.

Hermione returned the genuine smile and assured Daphne she would not get into any trouble (that Draco would find out about).

* * *

On Thursday, her babysitter was another sleep-deprived individual, but this time, one with considerably more care for Hermione's whereabouts.

"Harry, you don't actually _have_ to follow me everywhere around the Manor." Hermione huffed, taking the bowl of oatmeal from Dobby with a strained smile. Once he was out of sight, her lips twisted downward in a deep frown of disgust, then she continued walking through the corridors until she was outside. Hermione took a seat on a rocking bench, with the help of Harry at her elbow, steadying her.

"I _do_ have to follow you," he replied, raking a hand through his unruly black hair. It stuck out on all ends, no matter the circumstance. In the summer breeze, it was especially wild. "That's going to fall you know." Harry pointed to the bowl of oatmeal Hermione balanced atop her bump.

"No, it's not," she assured him. "Kick off, will you? I didn't come out here to sit on the swinging bench and not swing." Harry rolled his eyes at her but obliged. When his emerald gaze kept darting back and forth the bowl and the horizon, Hermione sighed impatiently. "If you want it, it's yours," she told him.

"You need to eat it." Harry protested.

"I'm not going to," she argued. "Seriously, take it."

"I thought you fucking needed fucking nutrients." At the unexpected arrival of Luna, Hermione startled, and her bowl of oatmeal nearly did topple off her bump; luckily, Harry caught it with killer reflexes. "Fuck, you're a mess." She collapsed on the lawn before them, then tilted her head back so her face and bountiful blonde curls caught the sunlight. Her three Stooges lingered in the background. "Want to hear a fucking riddle?"

"I have yet to solve the last one you gave me," mumbled Hermione, irritated at the unpleasant reminder.

"Fuck, it's not hard,"

"Easy for you to say," Hermione quipped back.

Luna shrugged. "How about you, fucking Chosen One? You want to hear a fucking riddle?" Harry, with a mouthful of oatmeal, nodded. "Fan-fucking-tastic," chimed Luna.

She propped herself up on her elbows and crossed her legs. Hermione noticed for the first time, with intrigue, that Luna didn't wear traditional womenswear; there was no need for Luna to be wary of her skirt, or sit _ladylike_, because she wore a suit that even Blaise would deem savvy. Unlike her unusual choice of jewelry, Luna's clothing was bespoke, but Hermione supposed the fact that she was wearing a suit at all – for a woman – was enough of a statement.

"Everyone fucking has it, but no one can fucking lose it. What the fuck is it?" Luna proposed. Harry's expression turned thoughtful, and Hermione could practically see the gears working overtime in his brain behind the shimmering hue of his eyes in the sunlight. She herself stared off into the blue sky, repeating the riddle over and over again. Luna, too, whispered the riddle repeatedly. "Everyone fucking has it, but no one can fucking lose it. What the fuck is it?"

Harry gave a few failed guesses, and Hermione stayed silent. After failing the last riddle, she wasn't about to say anything until she was sure she had the right answer, but even that tactic didn't sit well with her; it assumed she would solve it at all. It wasn't until Hermione waddled back from her fourth trip to the toilettes, that Harry had a sudden epiphany.

"A shadow!" He exclaimed, grinning.

"Fuck yeah, it's a shadow," replied Luna with a smirk.

Hermione bit her lip; she should have figured that out. "Well done, Harry," she said, resisting the sudden urge to cry. Stupid hormones. Instead, she channeled her frustration into something else. "Do you have any other riddles?"

"I fucking always have a fucking riddle." Luna arched a golden brow at her, then cleared her throat. She snapped her fingers and Muscles McGee appeared at her side a moment later. "Fetch us some fucking water, eh? Great. Fuck off." The man nodded, disappeared into the Manor, then reappeared with three glasses and a pitcher of water. Hermione took her glass with an appreciative nod. "Now then," Luna said. "Another fucking riddle… What can fucking fill up a fucking room but takes no fucking space?"

"Well, that's not fair," Hermione lamented. "That one's easy."

"What?" Harry blinked. "No, it's not."

"Yes, it is," sighed Hermione. "It's light."

"Fuck off," Luna laughed. "How can you fucking solve that one in fucking three seconds, but you can't figure out the other fucking riddle I gave you?"

"Harry solved it–"

"Not that fucking riddle," smirked Luna, leaning back to lay flat across the lawn.

Hermione blinked, recalling precisely which riddle Luna was referring to. Rather than indulge in Harry's curiosity, Hermione insisted she was tired and required a nap so, she let him lead her back to her bedroom – which was thankfully on the first floor and didn't require her to labor up a flight or two of stairs. When she collapsed onto the mattress, Hermione lay awake, staring out into the gardens with Luna's words running in circles around her head.

_The more of it there is, the less you see. What is it?_

* * *

On Friday, her babysitter was supposed to be someone akin to a minor trickster god, but instead she found herself pleasantly accompanied by his boyfriend.

"Hello, again, Harry," said Hermione. "I thought I was supposed to be with Theo, today?"

"Nope," he smiled. "I told Nott he could get lost. Personally, I don't think he planned on arguing. I doubt hanging around the Manor watching you all day was what he had in mind when he woke up this morning."

"And you did?" She challenged with a smirk.

"Hang around with you is pretty much what I do on my days off anyway, or else with Ron and Ginny." Harry said. "Speaking of, I stole you away from Nott because I figured it's been a while since you've visited the Burrow. Any chance you want to do that today?"

Hermione choked on a laugh. "Are you suggesting we play hooky?" He nodded. "Bloody hell, Harry. I thought you were afraid of what Draco might do if he found out I wasn't safely tucked away in the Manor?"

Harry shrugged. "You can be safely tucked away in the Burrow for a few hours. It's perfectly safe there, and I doubt you're in any real danger anyway."

"Nothing new on the Slughorn front, I take it?"

Harry shook his head. He followed her through the house where she convinced (re: threatened) Dobby to give them a ride out to the Burrow, then climbed into the backseat after helping her into it. "He hasn't been around a lot lately, and when he has been around the station, he's been acting strange." At Hermione's quirked lips and lifted eyebrows, he added, "Stranger than usual."

At the Burrow, Hermione barely had chance to settle into a worn armchair before Neville came bursting through the front door with a mad look on his face; it reminded her vaguely of his father, whenever he realized they made a grave error in their calculations for a particularly volatile experiment. Hermione jumped to her feet, then immediately grasped onto Harry's elbow and the torn fabric of the armchair for support.

"What is it?" She said to Neville, whose eyes were darting frantically around the room. "What happened?"

The only other people in the room were Nymphadora Tonks – a tough, magenta-haired woman with a cynical sense of humor – and her son, Teddy. Everyone else was otherwise upstairs or at their day job, and although it made Hermione and Harry's visit somewhat lacking, she recalled his surprise when discovering none of the Weasleys were floating about.

As it turns out, Neville was about to tell them precisely why the Weasleys weren't at the Burrow.

"It's Fred and George," Neville panted, striding up to Harry and Hermione; his dilated pupils sent her heart racing, but Hermione willed herself to be calm; it would not do to go into labor here and now. "Harry," Neville said, gripping his shoulder roughly. "Harry, you need to go. Ron is there with Ginny, but – They need you – Hurry!"

"Where are they? What happened?"

"No time to explain. They're at Wandsworth Prison." Neville swallowed, meeting Harry's stern gaze, then dropped his grip as the other man took off out the door without another word. Hermione stared; a pit in the bottom of her stomach tossed and turned uneasily, and she sank back into the armchair.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" She demanded.

Neville raked a hand through his hair, then sat on the coffee table in front of her; it creaked beneath his weight, and while Hermione didn't think it would hold given its cracks and instability, the table collapsing was hardly at the forefront of her mind. "It was routine – It was supposed to be, anyway – We gather a few guys, they get paid extra of course, and we help the Death Eaters with their quota for the coppers–"

"I'm familiar with the procedure." Hermione cut in.

Neville nodded. "Right, good. Well, like I said, it was supposed to be routine. I've been stood up before, a few of us have, but this time it was the Weasley twins – Fred and George." Hermione swallowed and the pit in her stomach dropped lower; she could feel a chill in the air that hadn't been there before. "Something went wrong. Normally, the Death Eaters have guys stationed inside, too, to make sure nothing happens, and we have our coppers work more shifts on weeks that our guys are inside. Except… Something went wrong. Fred and George, they–" He stopped, clamped his hands over his knees and didn't meet her eye. "George lost an ear – Someone cut it clean off and he's bleeding really bad."

"Oh my god," whispered Hermione. "That's horrible, how–"

"That's not the worst of it." Neville stated. "Fred is dead."

Hermione was silent.

Suddenly, Neville choked on a sob, and she quickly rushed to his side. Nymphadora, who had been quietly listening from the other side of the room, scooped up her son and ran upstairs, screaming at others to wake up. Shouting for them to listen, to _do something_. Hermione, meanwhile, held Neville until he regained control of his emotions, then eased back into the armchair and winced as her lower spine groaned with agony.

"What the hell happened?" She whispered, more to herself than to Neville.

Still, he shook his head.

"Fuck if I know." He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I hope Harry can keep Ginny in line. When I left, Ron was a right fucking mess but she – I have never seen someone look so murderous before. I'm afraid of what she might do, and in her condition I – I don't know what I would do if anything happened to her."

Hermione blinked, registering the distress beneath Neville's quiet voice. "Condition?" She repeated, meeting his eye. His eyes welled with tears, and Hermione stared. "What condition? Is she alright?"

"Unless she does something reckless, I imagine she'll be ok. She probably feels the same way you do," he replied.

"She's pregnant?"

Neville closed his eyes, taking a ragged breath, then nodded slowly. "Very," he confirmed. Sensing her surprise, he added, "You didn't know?"

"No, I – I suppose no one would have any reason to tell me, but – Wait–" Hermione paused to recall Neville's emotional rant and gasped. "Are you the father?" Neville's lips twisted at the corners, forming a small but radiant smile. "Holy fuck," she gasped again; it dissolved into a mix of laughter and senseless muttering. "What – How – _When_ – But – What?"

Neville shook his head playfully at her. "Always the tone of surprise with you, Granger."

Her mind reeled. For months, she'd heard updates from the New Order through Harry or Theo, and sometimes still Draco though she noticed he no longer took private meetings with Ginny, but with her brother Ron instead. Hermione presumed it was because of their tiny row about the meetings because it was still very clear that Ginny Weasley was the real leader of the New Order, not Ron. She was the one whom everyone talked about when it came to making decisions on their behalf, and more than once she recalled Harry mentioning some stupid, dangerous thing he and her had gotten up to with Ron.

It infuriated Hermione that although she and Ginny were evidently pregnant at the same time, their lives were completely different; one woman was readily granted freedom, while the other fought to escape her cage.

Swallowing her pride – and anger – Hermione placed a gentle hand on Neville's knee. "It'll be fine. Ginny is tough as nails. Nothing will hurt her."

Silence fell between them, and this time, neither immediately sought to break it with mindless chatter and reassurances.

Hermione tensed, seeing Neville so distraught, because even though she had known the Weasley twins, she wouldn't consider herself to be a friend, or even an acquaintance, of theirs; she could relate to his suffering, but with the sharp pain shooting up her spine, she found it difficult to focus on anything else. Hermione shifted, attempting to alleviate the pain, and took slow, deep breaths. With no other means of comforting Neville, she urged him to follow her lead; together they inhaled, exhaled, and let their minds wander through all of the possibilities of who could be behind this attack. It had to be someone who stood to gain from it, but who? Then, with a sickly feeling rising in the base of her throat, Hermione recalled another targeted attack on the New Order and Theo's insightful words.

_The bombing at Crouch's hideout? Strained relations with Draco's new ally – the New Order._

She didn't know how, but Hermione was sure Tom was behind this. After all, the New Order was already distrustful of Draco and their new allegiance, and many of them were ready to retaliate after the bombing. It wouldn't have taken much more to break their trust, especially when – according to Neville – the only men injured in the prison attack were New Order members, not Draco's men or any picked up off the street.

Tom was staging a war.

Hermione snapped her head up and peered through the dirty windowpanes at Dobby shifting nervously behind the driver's seat and clenched her jaw.

"I have to go back to the Manor right away," she said, getting to her feet. "I have to warn the others."

* * *

Hermione was in such a hurry to get out of the car that she didn't notice when her custom Chanel shift dress snagged on something and tore; the seam split up her thigh, slicing several tiny patterned pink and blue hydrangeas in half, but she didn't pay it any attention. Fine linens and jewels had never really been her thing, anyway, and right now she more important thoughts occupying her mind.

"Draco!" She cried, waddling through the halls until she found him in the largest sitting room standing amongst Theo and Narcissa, all of them with deeply furrowed brows and grim expressions. "Draco," Hermione huffed, welcoming his embrace then stepping quickly out of it to deliver the news. "We have a problem."

"If this is about the Wandsworth Prison attack, I'm afraid I already know." He commented. His lips formed a thin line, and Hermione searched his dark, stormy eyes for a clue as to what he planned on doing because of it. Sensing nothing but bloodshed ahead, her pulse raced.

"How do you know?" She asked, hoping to distract him long enough to convince him against a violent retaliation. He wasn't thinking clearly.

"Potter," Theo supplied. "I ran into him on his way there and he told me everything Longbottom told the two of you. I returned to the Manor at once," he explained. Theo glanced toward Draco. "What are we going to do? We can't just let them get away with this."

"Well, we can't bloody go attacking the coppers in broad daylight, Nott. Use your bloody head." Narcissa retorted, taking a long drag of her cigarette.

"For fuck's sake, Narcissa! I'm not about to let fucking _Slughorn_ get away with this shit–"

"Slughorn?" Hermione scoffed. "No, this is definitely Tom's work–"

"Are you seriously still going on about him? Hermione, there's no way he had anything to do with this. It had to have been an inside job, and who else had the means and motivation aside from Slughorn?" Theo ranted. He waved his hand toward Narcissa and Draco. "You claim he's so loyal to your family because of his ties with Lucius, but guess what? Lucius isn't here and he is, and he would stand to gain a lot from dismembering the allegiance of the Death Eaters and the New Order, _and then_ pinning them against each other!" Theo slammed his hand against the wall behind him. "Ginny Weasley is _furious_ and rightfully so. She thinks it was an inside job _on our part. _And, honestly, how else do we explain that the fact that only _her_ men were injured and killed? Hm? No one else had a bloody hair on their even touched."

Draco inhaled sharply.

"I can accept that Slughorn was behind this."

Hermione whipped her head around, "_What?_"

"But," he went on, glancing askance at her before meeting Theo's narrowed gaze. "I still don't think he's the ringleader for all of this chaos. He hasn't got the brains nor the bloodlust." He paused, glancing again at Hermione. "Riddle, however, has both of those things, and I wouldn't have put it past him to blackmail Slughorn."

"Hm, it's about time you've figured that out," drawled a new, gravely voice. All four of them turned to face the new voice and the man who accompanied it; three of them jumped as if they'd seen a ghost, and for the most part, they had. The man stepped forward into the room, and his posh leather shoes clacking against the hardwood floor with the added _tap_ of his iron cane matching the pace of his right foot. Atop the cane was the head of a snake; its fangs bared in a similar manner to those of its owner's canine teeth when he smiled a sickly-sweet smile. "Draco… Narcissa… Ah, and young Theodore. Would you be so kind as to give me a moment with my wife and son?"

Theo tensed; he and Draco shared a knowing glance, then Theo wrapped his hand around Hermione's wrist and tugged her along with him. The sudden movement brought her out of her temporary paralysis at seeing Lucius Malfoy not only alive and well, but also standing before them ready to taunt and torture his family. The stories of a young Draco, beaten and ridiculed popped into her head, and her free hand instinctively went to the base of her bump. Hermione yanked her other arm free from Theo's iron-clad grip and stood her ground.

"No," she snapped. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you alone with them – I won't let you hurt them anymore."

Lucius, however, simply twisted his lips into a mean grin. "You must be Hermione Granger. Tom has told me a lot about you. Ah," his grey eyes, the same slated color of Draco's, flickered down to her enormous bump, "and this explains his recent bad attitude."

_You were never mine, were you?_

_Someone close to me warned me of this, and I couldn't help but put his theory to the test._

"You," she gasped, anger boiling in her blood. "You're the one that's been in Tom's ear, giving him Death Eater secrets."

"That's enough out of you," Lucius hissed, slamming his cane against the floor and letting the sound echo throughout the high ceilings of the room. "Get out. _Now_."

"Come on, Hermione," said Theo in her ear. "Come on, let's go. They'll be fine."

"Theo – _No _– I want–"

But what Hermione wanted was drowned out as Draco shoved her into Theo's arms; he dragged her quickly and roughly out the door and into the hall, breathing hard. She turned to him, furious, and demanded to be let back into the sitting room.

"Fuck no," panted Theo. "I'm not letting you anywhere near that fucking monster."

"Fine," she huffed. "If you won't let me go in, then I'll find another way to hear whatever the fuck Lucius Malfoy came back from the dead to say to them." Hermione stormed off down the corridor, and Theo groaned, punched a wall, then traipsed behind her.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"Here," she answered, pushing the door to her right open to reveal a small room. Hermione didn't waste any time explaining what she was about to do. Instead, she hurried across the room, pulse racing, and pulled a painting free from the wall opposite; she exhaled a sigh of relief when she saw that her trusty peephole into the sitting room was still there. "Come," she beckoned the Theo, stepping aside to gesture to the hole. "Have a look."

Reluctantly, Theo bent his head and peered through the small hole in the wall.

"What the bloody hell," he murmured. "How long has this bloody been here for? Is this how you've were spying on us as Penny?"

"First of all, Theo, this peephole was already here before I stepped foot in the Manor so, I suggest you stop pointing daggers at me. Second of all, if you don't shut the hell up, we won't be able to hear what the hell is going on in that room." Hermione took advantage of Theo's disgruntled silence and leaned forward on her tippy toes to peer once again through the hole and into the sitting room.

"Father," Draco says, his voice clipped; there is an essence of fear behind his tone of shock. "You aren't dead."

"He fucking should be," hissed Narcissa, arms crossed and pale eyes narrowed. At one cutting glare from Lucius, however, her demeanor completely changes; her slim shoulder hunch, forcing her normally very erect spine to bend and shrink, and her hands visibly shake before curling into fists under her crossed arms.

For the first time in Hermione's life, she witnesses fear in Narcissa's pale eyes.

"How?" Draco demands, shifting to stand in front of his mother.

"I won't bore you with the details, Son, but let's just say don't believe a man to be dead unless you've seen his body and the light leave his eyes." Lucius drawled. He pulled a gleaming timepiece from his black suit, then tucked it back into his pocket and resumed his emotional torment. "You must understand what it was like for me, to return home from the war and wake in a hospital bed surrounded by imbeciles. No one believed me, you see, when I told them of my true identity because of all the fuss in the papers about you Draco. It was unnerving to see my posthumous achievements and the very company I created to spite my own father passed down to _you_. Undeservingly, might I add." He choked on a dry laugh. "I thought it was bad enough when I was forced to relinquish my managerial duties to my wife so that I could _fight for my beloved country_ in the war. No – I would much rather let that whore run my company than you, Son."

Draco stood silently fuming with his fingers curling and uncurling into fists at his side.

Hermione and Theo watched in horror.

"What do you want?" Draco snapped, his lips twitching with fury. "Why the fuck did you come back here?"

"Hm," grunted Lucius. "I don't recall you being so bold and so brave a decade ago… Perhaps, this is the making of that little wench you keep around? Tom says her bark nearly as satisfying as her bite, but then again, you would know…" Lucius smirked mischievously.

"_Fuck you_," hissed Draco. "Don't you _dare_ fucking say another word about her."

"Don't mistake this for a debate, Son. I am not here to play games. I simply came to see the fruits of my labor flourish, and it's not every day one lives to see an empire fall. I'll admit, I was hesitant at first, when Tom suggested we be rid of the Death Eaters altogether rather than simply overtake them, but I came around. Better to let what you love die rather than see it in the hands of another. After all, I _am_ sacrificing them as well as my own child," he paused, then let out another biting, mean laugh. "I don't mean you of course, Draco. My company, rather."

"What the hell are you on about?"

"Oh, you don't know?" Lucius teased; his grey eyes twinkled with delight as his eyes shifted back and forth his wife and his son. "My dear wife has been very naughty lately, aligning herself with the state's enemies, and I daresay, it won't end well for her because of it. Then again, if you play with fire, you will get burned." He trilled, giving them his mean grin. "You'll see." He taunted. Again, Lucius checked his timepiece. "Ah, any minute now."

On cue, a loud boom sounded from the front of the house.

Hermione and Theo jumped back from the peephole and scurried out of the room. Turning at the end of the hall, they witnessed a hoard of coppers trailing into the house through the foyer. Hermione reached out for Theo, almost collapsing on him as her knees buckled beneath her.

"No," she gasped.

Over two dozen men marched into the Manor, followed by none other than Chief Inspector Horace Slughorn himself. It all happened very quickly, before either Hermione or Theo could react; Narcissa was cuffed and led outside with Draco trailing helplessly behind as Lucius laughed and patted Slughorn on the back. The men and the coppers retreated from the Manor as swiftly as they came, taking Narcissa with them.

Draco, Theo and Hermione stood on the top step outside the front door of the Manor, gaping at the as the last copper car peeled out of the driveway and sped off; the sky, steeped in glorious shades of pale pink and golden orange, flickered into deeper hues of violet and indigo as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Theo shook; his breaths were rapid and shallow. For the man who always had a biting remark to make, or a cynical joke to input into conversation, he didn't resemble his usual self in the slightest. The very air around him was cold and stiff. The arm which Hermione was holding onto for dear life trembled in the wake of the past hour's events. His black curls, poking out from beneath his newsboy cap, its blade glinting in the last rays of sunshine, were slicked against his forehead, where beads of sweat pooled; a few began to slide down the length of his face, shining against the high curve of his angular cheekbone. Fear riddled throughout his body; every ragged breath a plea for help.

Draco was shockingly different. Unlike Theo, he did not tremble with fear, but rather he shook with rage. The classic anger of the leader of the Death Eaters returned anew, as if he had never truly learned to control his temper at all; with it came heat, boiling in his blood and emanating onto Hermione's palms, where she gripped his arm to steady herself between the two men. His teeth bit into his lower lip, to the point of drawing blood, and he fed from this anger, directing it toward those who threatened his empire and his family.

Slowly, he twisted his neck to look down at Hermione.

"Father said you knew – You knew this would happen, and that you brought it on Mother. You did this."

Hermione – existed in a state not so dissimilar to the two men she stood between, gripping so harshly there was no doubt she would leave bruises on their upper arms – bit down on her lip to stop it from trembling. She felt Draco's anger and was furious with herself; she blamed herself just as much as he blamed her for Narcissa's fate. Worse was the voice in her head telling her not only could she have prevented this from happening, but, at the very least, she could have told Draco about it. A blindsided and betrayed Draco Malfoy was a dangerous man. Which is why she also felt Theo's fear; tears welled in her eyes as she watched the sun set beyond the horizon as well as on her blissful time in her throne beside Draco's.

As if matters couldn't get any worse, however, there was something else Hermione was suddenly afraid of.

"What the fuck?" Theo exclaimed, breaking from his trance to glance down at the unexpected puddle of water that doused all of their feet, soaking them through.

Draco and Theo both attempted to back away from the water, grimacing at their wet socks and shoes, but Hermione yanked them back towards her with intense strength and focus.

"I believe," Hermione exhaled, gasping for air, "my water just broke."

* * *

**A/N -** Happy (American) Mother's Day! I hope everyone has a wonderful day, stay safe. Also, I made a tumblr account (@kateshathaway) so, you should follow me and message me so I can follow you back xx

This chapter title comes from the song _Pull Up _by KSI, Randolph and J'me from the lines _drink from the bottle, I'm making a puddle / call up the server to clean up the bubbles / she want a sip of the glorious _


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